


All Tired Talk

by orphan_account



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, American AU, Blood, Drug Use, Homophobic Language, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Suicidal Thoughts, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-25
Updated: 2015-02-08
Packaged: 2018-02-27 00:12:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 27
Words: 268,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2671673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Harry is the dying front man of a dying rock band, Zayn has finally given up holding his hair back in dingy bathrooms, Niall and Liam are holding up the fort, and Louis comes along with eyes the color of the sky to remind Harry that there is still more life to live.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Buckle in; this is going to be a bumpy ride.
> 
> Title comes from the song that inspired this whole wild thing, Just Tonight by Jimmy Eat World. 
> 
> Here we go. We're all in this together.

BOOK ONE

  
Every last fucking night was the same as the one before. Nothing ever changed. Harry Styles took the stage with his band and he took the microphone stand in both hands and closed his eyes and sang. The fans (God, there were so many of them now) screamed for him and reached for him and vertigo nearly took him away if he opened his eyes long enough to reach for them back. He used to be able to sing to the crowd. He used to let them touch him as they stood on tiptoes with their fingers outstretched. A simple brush of his hand would be enough to make them cry.

  
But he couldn’t do it anymore. They reached (they never fucking stopped reaching; why did they never learn?) and they reached but he couldn’t bring himself to touch them these days. As long as Harry closed his eyes against them and pretended they were not real, they couldn’t get to him. They couldn’t hold onto him. And they couldn’t hurt him. He was in complete control of the show and of the crowd and of the band and every goddamn night he wondered if they would ever give up on him. What would happen to him if he lost the crowd? If they turned their backs on him, sick to death of all the hiding and the shadows under his eyes, where would that leave him?

  
Harry did not have much, but the thought of losing his audience was almost too much to bear. Anything else in the world he would give up just to keep them. The hands and the screams and the open mouths shouting his own lyrics back at him…it was all Harry had left. A long time ago, at the beginning of this stupid, endless tour, the bandmates who stood flanking him on three sides gave up on him. The three of them huddled him, shaking and sick, in the back of the tour bus and they told him this was it. They were finished. After this tour (the Head Space Tour, named for their fourth album; who the hell named that stupid album anyway?) Harry’s boys were done. They wanted nothing more to do with him and his pills and the bottles stashed under his bed and his shivering and his bloody noses.

  
It was just as well. Harry thought he would probably be used up long before the end of the tour, anyway. The final show, buried deep at the tail end of March after an endless fall and winter, seemed like a beacon of light Harry could never reach. Tonight was show number ten of tour number seven. Harry couldn’t have shouted the name of the city they were in if his life depended on it. As his band, The Troves, gathered their instruments and slipped onstage, Harry grabbed his manager by the arm and asked her where they were. She looked at him hard in the eye, her pretty mouth a hard line painted pink, and she said,

  
“We’re in Denver, Haz. Jesus.” Sophia Smith pulled away from Harry’s hand, straightening the fabric of her expensive charcoal suit, and Harry grimaced as she added, “I’ve already told you three times. Get up there now, yeah?” He wanted to tell her he was sorry for being forgetful and he was sorry for being stupid but he couldn’t make the words come. Most of the time they only came when he was up on stage. Words he wrote in a different lifetime always flowed easier than words he tried to scramble for in conversation.  
One of the loyal roadies for The Troves shoved an earpiece haphazardly into Harry’s ear and apologized gruffly when Harry shied away and hissed from the pain of the man’s jabbing fingers. Harry knew this man. This man had been with them since the beginning, seven years ago when Harry was seventeen and he thought he knew everything. Now he was lucky if he could remember this guy’s fucking name. (It had to start with a J; it just had to.) Instead of asking, Harry let the man shove him gently from behind and push him towards the stage. He didn’t have much of a choice. The show must go on.

  
Harry slipped by his (former) best friend, Zayn Malik, who had already slung his guitar across his body and held it still in both hands. He used to smile at Zayn beaming that smile that said, “Aren’t we lucky?” But now he walked on by and raised his hand in front of his face and pretended to adjust his earpiece to avoid looking Zayn in the eye. He knew Zayn would be smiling at him, still, deep brown eyes glittering in the red lights illuminating the stage. Zayn always smiled at him. Harry didn’t have the energy to marvel at the fact anymore. Liam Payne, the energetic (onstage) and stoic and scowling (off) drummer, tossed his drumsticks up and down and watched them spin over each other in the air. He caught them with familiar ease as Harry walked past him to take his spot onstage. Niall Horan called Harry’s name from his left and Harry offered him a half-hearted nod. Niall was so good to him. Niall always tried. And Harry tried to appreciate it; he really did.

  
But just like everything else, every night it grew harder. Niall dipped his blond head and adjusted the strap of his bass hanging crookedly off one shoulder and Harry wrapped both hands tight around the cold metal of the microphone stand. And all at once the crowd became real. They held their hands out towards Harry, screaming so loud the sound seemed to vibrate in the air. He could hardly see them through the haze of pulsing lights. It was just as well; these days the sight of them so close tended to make him dizzy. More and more he found himself fighting for air onstage.

  
He pulled it together. He had to; he had no choice. His crowd and his band were waiting and he had to start the show if he ever wanted to end it. Long ago when he was a kid (before the drugs, before the pain, before the tiredness seeped into his bones) he would raise his arms and scream to the ceiling and rip the microphone from its stand and race like a madman to the front of the stage. He would balance himself on the amp at center stage and shout his lyrics into the faces of his fans. It was power and it was beauty and so slowly he didn’t notice the change until it was too late, the desire to touch the crowd left him.

  
He hated them. He hated the way they screamed and the way they always demanded to be heard and seen and felt. He owed them nothing and they wanted the world. Why did they expect so much from him? Why couldn’t they fucking understand that he was a person and he was alive and he was fucking dying? It cost him everything he had to be up there. It was painful and it was only getting worse but there was nothing he could do. The Troves had a job and Harry’s job was to lead them.

  
And so he did. With both hands clutching the microphone, Harry let his eyes slip closed. It was hot onstage and sweat pooled in the small of his back as he tried to remember how to breathe. In and out. In and out. It was all he could do. The screaming died down as the audience waited, collectively holding their breath as they stood in silence.  
He could do this. He had to.

  
Harry opened his mouth and let the words he penned two summers ago fall from him one by one. He wrote this song in the back of the tour bus, the words coming to him as he came down from a high that had sent him reeling. This song began slow, a flickering flame nearly dying out before Liam came to life on the drums and the boys on Harry’s sides joined him. Zayn was so talented (way too talented to be in this fucking band on the fast track to dying young; he deserved so much better), always leaning over his guitar so his long dark hair fell over his face. He strummed the familiar tune as Harry sang,

  
“I really don’t have the head space for you anymore, my dear.”

  
Even as he wrote it he had no idea who he was writing about. Singing it now was torture; each and every member of the frantic front row bounced up and down hoping he would sing to them. How they still held hope close to their hearts was beyond Harry. He hadn’t looked anyone in the eye in longer than he could remember. God, had he been confident. He was stupid and young and he thought this was what he wanted. He worked for years to get here, in this very spot center stage, bathed in sickly red light. And now more than anything he wanted it all to go away.

  
“It’s been so long since I’ve decided to hide,” Harry moaned into the microphone. “I’ll keep myself safe if I keep it inside.” His voice wavered, carried across the sea of people before him. They loved his voice; they fucking lived for his voice. Every time he heard it bounce back to him in his earpiece he cringed. His throat was scratchy and his voice strained, thin and low and broken. But still they loved it. They loved it. As they sang along with him it grew easier, his own voice disappearing into the thousands shouting those stupid words back at him. At his left and at his right Zayn and Niall sang backup for him. They were so much better than him. Niall’s voice was high and Zayn’s was low, filling in the holes Harry’s left. They sounded good. They sounded great. And Harry tried to ignore the flashing of dozens of shitty phone cameras going off in the front row.

  
He was not oblivious to the things people began to say about him. They knew. They fucking knew almost from the very beginning that they were going to lose him. They made signs (YOU’RE MY HERO, HARRY) and wrote to him (I don’t know what I would have done if I hadn’t discovered your music and I just wanted you to know you saved my life) and endlessly they chanted at each and every show (WE LOVE YOU, HAZ!!!) and it made Harry feel sick. As the fans fought to keep him he felt himself sinking deeper and deeper. They thought they could save him, that their love and support could bring him back to them. And every night that they stood there, eyes shining with tears, and he wanted to scream at them.

  
_You could find someone so much better than me._ __

  
_Don’t put your life in my hands!_

  
_It’s not fair._

  
_It’s not fucking fair!_

  
All the things he should have said never came out. Never. He kept it up, pretending to be their hero, and they fucking loved it. But they weren’t stupid. They could see as well as Zayn or Niall or Liam could that he was broken and he wasn’t getting better. They flashed signs in his face painted in black marker on neon paper (YOU’RE MY LIGHT, HARRY!!!) and God, did they write him letters filled with so much pain (I’m only writing because I can tell that you’re going through a rough patch right now and I know it’s stupid of me to assume that not really knowing you, but I can just tell) and they made heart shapes with their hands and threw them in the air to the beat of his songs. They supported him just as much as Zayn or Niall or Liam used to, but they knew. They fucking knew.

  
He was never going to get better.

  
He stuttered, eyes shut tight, into the microphone when the first song of the night ended in an echoing warble of Zayn’s guitar.

  
“We’re The Troves,” he assured the audience as if they had no fucking idea. They screamed bloody murder every time he spoke to them and it made his head pound. (He had to stop doing that; it hurt too badly to keep it up much longer.) “And it’s great to see you tonight, Denver.” At the mention of their city the crowd erupted and Harry cringed away from the microphone, leaning heavy on it and tilting his head down. Eventually they would stop. They would quiet down and wait for him because they knew him just as well as he knew himself and they knew if they fell silent, only then would he be able to gather the courage to continue.

  
(He didn’t deserve them. He didn’t fucking deserve them.)

  
“This next song is a little newer,” Zayn shouted to the crowd, taking over for Harry just like he always did. He was good (God, he was good) and he spoke when Harry lost his voice. The next song. There was always a next song. This one was written this past summer, just before the beginning of the Head Space tour, and as he wrote it Harry hoped his bandmates and his fans would not see it for what it really was. To Harry, it was a goodbye. It was not exactly a suicide note but it bore the same message: soon I’ll be leaving you.

  
“My best friend wrote this song and he wrote it just for you,” Niall told the crowd. Without looking at him Harry knew exactly the stance Niall took as he spoke. He loved to lean forward, lean close, and speak face to face with the front row. He looked like a dipping bird, one of those ridiculous plastic toys that bobbed up and down. He nodded and he riled up the crowd, waving his arms and laughing when the crowd grew frantic with impatience. He had a smile Harry used to call beatific. It was. It was the most goddamn beatific smile Harry had ever seen; Niall was on top of the world. And even now Niall could never keep it off his face for long. While Zayn still smiled, too at the crowd, once in a while, it was Niall who let the audience know there was still some happiness and joy to be found.

  
He gave up trying to let Harry know the same.

  
As Niall’s voice faded as he waited for Liam’s drums to begin the song, a lone voice shouted from the very front row.

  
“Look at us, Harry!”

  
And all at once the arena went silent. Zayn’s shadow, cast over the stage by the toes of Harry’s high top sneakers, froze as Zayn did. Harry could feel eyes on him (his bandmates stared, they always stared) and in a swell of motion the noise started up again.

  
“Harry!” the crowd crowed. “Harry, look at us!” His hands on the microphone were the only thing keeping him tethered to planet Earth and to the stage as the crowd began to chant. Harry was dimly aware of Sophia pacing behind him somewhere backstage and of Liam tapping nervously with his drumsticks on the side of his snare (he always did that, he always had a nervous habit or two even when he pretended to be made of stone) and Harry couldn’t make sense of it. They were talking to him. That he understood. But what did they think they would gain by making eye contact with him? What did they think they would see?

  
Harry stood frozen under the blinding blue-white spotlight tying him to center stage. He screwed his eyes up tighter and lowered his head again. His breath began to catch in his throat, hot and heavy behind his tongue (don’t cry don’t cry don’t fucking let them see shit like that) and his heart stuttered deep in his chest.

  
“Look at us! Look at us!” What did they want from him? He was here and he was alive and he was performing like a fucking robot for them like he was meant to do. Would they be happy if he slit his wrists for them and showed them the music in his blood? There was nothing else he could think of to do for them. It was asking too much to ask him to raise his heavy head.

  
“Look at you?” Zayn asked the crowd, a laugh in his larger than life voice. “Come on, do you think our friend Harry here really wants to look at your ugly faces all night?” To that, the crowd screamed. Zayn’s voice held no sign of fear or a waiver. He was brave. He was bright. And Harry heard the screech of his microphone as he drew it too close to his lips and said, “I’m looking at you! Niall’s looking at you! Even Liam, the shy bastard in the back, is looking at you! What more do you want?” He was trying desperately to save Harry’s ass, just like he always did. He was good, he was so fucking good, and Harry’s stomach twisted up and his throat burned as Zayn tried to placate the people who were never, ever satisfied.

  
“Look at us!” the crowd shouted as one. There were so fucking many of them; whose idea was this fucking arena tour? Sophia saw that Harry was drowning and still she pressed The Troves to do another crazy, drawn out marathon race across the world, starting what felt like a million miles from home. The room was closing in on Harry, pinning him to the stage, and he was not about to cry. He was not about to give in to the impatient crowd. He couldn’t have even if he wanted to. He was broken and he felt his limbs begin to quake.

  
Niall and Liam, dead silent, may as well have been ghosts on stage as Zayn guffawed into his microphone and tried to play Harry’s panic off as a game meant to entertain. Harry wanted to be grateful, God he did, but he held his tongue between his teeth and tried not to let reality slip from his grasp. If he opened his eyes, this was real. If he looked up, it was over. He was done. And he couldn’t let that happen. Who was he to be beaten by this crowd? Where was the Harry who would have thought this funny? Where was the man who would let fans crowd him on stage and sing along by his side?

  
It didn’t matter. All that mattered was that man was gone. And in his place stood a coward.

  
“All right, guys, settle the hell down so we can play you some songs! Isn’t that what you shelled out mommy’s money for?” Zayn tried. He tried so hard and Harry did not deserve it but he tried and he tried. The audience was not having it. They were gone, shouting at the top of their lungs directly at Harry, and he pretended his knees were not about to unlock and send him spilling to the stage. His forehead was slick on the icy metal of the microphone clenched like an anchor in both shaking hands. If he trembled any harder, he was going to break bones and shatter to pieces. He was sure of it.

  
He needed to get away. He had to run. Fuck standing here and taking it and making everyone happy. He couldn’t do it anymore. He wouldn’t.

  
The screams rose as he turned his head, intent on locking eyes with Zayn and begging him to help. Zayn always understood him without Harry having to speak (he couldn’t be more grateful; he owed Zayn so much and he never, ever asked for anything from anyone) and all Harry had to do was open his goddamn eyes and make Zayn see him. Pain settled hot and heavy in his throat as his heart pounded hard enough to see in starbursts against the solid blackness of his eyelids.

  
“Look at us!”

  
I can’t, I can’t, I can’t.

  
“Look at us!” Zayn had either given up on speaking to the crowd or he was trying with all his might to silence them with violent hand gestures so Harry would not see.

  
“Look at us!” Did they not understand that he couldn’t? He couldn’t do it; it was too much. He had to go. Nothing in this whole awful tour had been harder than trying to stand and giving up. He couldn’t look at Zayn. It was too much. It was over.

  
They had had a good run, The Troves. But if they wanted to go on, they would have to go on without Harry. He had to go. He had to run.

  
“Look at us!” He wanted desperately to apologize but the lump in his throat was sticky and hot and no words would come. It was just as well; nothing he could have spoken would have been intelligible at all.

  
He had to go. He had to run or he was going to lose it.

  
“Look at us!”

  
(Damage control; it was always damage control, and the lights focused hot on Harry’s skin dimmed.)

  
And he bolted. He darted off the stage and did not look back. He felt Sophia’s hands on his shoulders (she had sharp fucking talons that she loved to dig deep into him to make him listen) and he heard Zayn trying to follow him off the stage and being held back by the roadie with a name beginning with a J. Zayn was good; he was so, so good, but Sophia was angry with Harry and she would rather die than let Zayn move to comfort him.

  
Harry barely made it to the bathroom and slammed the lock into place in Sophia’s angry, scowling face before he dropped to his knees and let his stomach betray him. He leaned heavy on the chilly ceramic of the dingy toilet, heaving and gasping for breath between painful clenches of his guts.

  
“Harry, let me in!” Sophia shouted. She pounded at the door with hard little fists, irate and impatient. She didn’t understand that he was done. It was over; it was fucking over and all the screaming in the world would never bring it back.

  
“Harry!” She echoed perfectly the crowd that sent him running for his life, demanding and unrelenting. She never understood. “You have a show to finish out there, Harry Styles!” He was not a child. He was not. And he was not about to be intimidated by a girl who knew nothing about him anymore. He ignored her. Stomach empty, he leaned on the toilet and tried to gather the energy to raise his hand and flush. Another set of footsteps joined Sophia outside the door and Harry screwed his eyes up as Zayn fought with Sophia for the right to speak. Harry dimly heard snippets of their fierce squabble (“MY best friend in there, who do you think you are?”) but he didn’t have the strength or the desire to listen.

  
And then Zayn knocked.

  
“Haz,” he said through the door. Sophia made her familiar sound of giving up and growled in frustration as her high heels clicked away. Zayn and Harry were alone. The thought scared Harry more than anything; the two of them had not been alone together in more nights that Harry could remember. He yearned for the bottle of painkillers none of his boys knew he had hidden under the mattress of his top bunk tour bus bed. But they were far away and he was here, crouching over the toilet with his stomach in knots, and again Zayn knocked.

  
“Haz, are you alive in there?” Harry remembered the last time Zayn asked him that. Just before this tour began, with a door a lifetime ago separating them, Zayn had asked the same thing. Harry had been heaving, then, too, losing his battle with the whiskey in his stomach. Back then he was only nervous, not terrified; he had been losing it and the band was already breaking apart, but the contract for the tour had been signed and Harry wondered if he was trying to end things himself before he had to begin.  
He was such a fucking coward.

  
Zayn knocked. “Harry, hey. I know you don’t want to let me in. But you’re going to get your ass sued if you don’t get out there and finish this show. I guess…” He paused and Harry knew exactly the face he was wearing. He would be gnawing at his upper lip, trapping it tight between his teeth, just like he always did when words began to fail him. “I guess getting sued by the stupid record label is the least of your worries, yeah?” That was right. There was nothing Harry cared about less than Sophia’s anger and the ensuing wrath of the record label. He simply could not do this anymore. He was done. What did it matter?

  
Zayn spoke again. “Listen,” he said, voice gentle. He had a way with people. Harry knew that. And he was not going to let Zayn lure him out there, not for anything. “You really have to finish this show, Haz. The crowd is going crazy out there. I’ll get them to leave you alone, I promise. It was real shitty, what they did, yeah? I’m sorry I couldn’t get them to shut up for you, Haz.” Harry clutched the toilet like it was an anchor and did not reply. “Can you hear me, Haz? Are you even listening?” Zayn was impatient as everyone else and Harry understood that. He had a job. He was being paid to stand center stage and if he couldn’t do that, everyone who depended on him deserved to be angry. They had every right to hate him.

  
But what did it fucking matter?

  
“Jeff is looking for the key to the bathroom, Haz,” Zayn warned. (That was it, that was the roadie with the name beginning with a J. It was Jeff fucking Azoff, who had been with them for years.) “We’re pulling you out of there whether you let us in or not. God, Haz, I wish I didn’t have to do this to you. I wish I didn’t have to give up on you. But you really don’t make being your friend easy.”

  
Zayn had stopped being his friend a long time ago. It was wrong of him to preach to Harry now, claiming Harry was the one who made it hard. Zayn tuned out and Harry didn’t have the energy to tune him back in again and that was all. Harry began to shiver against the toilet seat, his whole body cold and tired and achy, and the last thing he wanted was to be dragged from the room like a child but he could hardly find his legs, never mind use them. His fingers grew numb around the porcelain as Zayn tried once more to get his attention.

  
I’ve never been this fucking cold in my life; how can someone be this cold and still be alive?

  
“Haz, remember what I said to you when we first signed to our record label?”

  
Harry paused. Of course he remembered. It was a different lifetime; he was a kid and Zayn was a kid and they had it all planned out. Zayn was never serious until the moment he pulled Harry aside where Liam and Niall couldn’t hear them, in the attic of the garage they played in. His eyes were wide and he spoke fast, as if he was scared the words would leave him if he didn’t get them out fast enough.

  
“Harry, I think we should make a promise to each other right now before we get too deep into this,” Zayn had said. Harry had laughed and told him to spit it out but Zayn was deadly serious as he spoke. “I want you to know that no matter what happens, I will always- don’t laugh!” (Harry remembered that part more clearly than anything else; the way Zayn sharply asked him not to laugh with solemnity in his face.) “Don’t laugh, Harry. I want you to know that no matter where we go, whatever happens, I will always be your best friend. And I want you to promise me the same.”

  
Zayn had spoken to a band they opened for in New Jersey and what they had to say scared the shit out of him. The lead singer, haggard and pale, had told Zayn in the venue’s dingy bathroom that soon they would be breaking up. They hated each other. They had grown sick of being together and of trying to pretend that they were the same boys who had started out so hopeful about what it meant to be in a band. Zayn didn’t want that for The Troves. He wanted to be hopeful, and hope was what he chose. So, still trying not to laugh at Zayn’s sudden urgency, Harry took his hand and promised that yes, they would always be best friends. No matter what.

  
It was miraculous that Zayn remembered. And it was even more so that the memory failed to bring tears to Harry’s burning eyes. He wanted to cry as he heard Zayn lean on the bathroom door awaiting Harry’s reply. He wanted to cry knowing how badly and irreparably he had destroyed their friendship. Zayn was disenchanted and it was no one’s fault but Harry’s (he was so selfish; he was so fucking selfish) and Harry wanted to make it right.

 

He wanted to. But the thought that it was already too late was the only thought he could grasp onto.

  
“Haz…” Zayn pleaded, heartbreak written all over the sound of his voice. Harry had to stand up. He had to. He had to finish the show and finish the tour and face whatever was thrown at him. He owed it to Zayn and to The Troves to be better. Why couldn’t he get better? Why couldn’t he get his fucking legs to move? He may as well have been carved from stone as someone began to fumble with the bathroom lock and fight their way to him. He heard from far away the sound of Zayn snapping to Sophia,

  
“If he’s fucking hurt himself in there, Sophia, I will never fucking forgive you. How could you snap at him like that?”

  
(Zayn was good; he was so fucking good.)

  
The door swung open and light spilled into the bathroom as Zayn rushed in three steps to Harry’s side. Sophia hovered by the door; Harry could hear the impatient tapping of her high heels on the linoleum floor. He hated that she stood there, judgmental and angry, but before he could get angry himself Zayn’s hands landed on his shoulders.

  
“Haz, are you okay?” Zayn asked. There was no way that was a tremor in his voice; Zayn was braver than that. But there was no mistaking the shaking of his hands. He was scared and Harry did it to him. Harry’s stiff neck creaked as he struggled to raise his head and look Zayn in the eye. As soon as their eyes met, Zayn beamed. “There you are!” he said. “Hey, are you okay?” Zayn was barely twenty-five but lines and purple circles ringed his gleaming eyes. He was pale and his lip bore a dent in the shape of his teeth and Harry resisted the urge to cry at the sight. Zayn may have told him he was done and he may have said it with coldness marring his face but he was here and no one else was and Harry owed him so much more than he ever gave him.

  
So Harry said the last thing he wanted to say. “Yeah, I’m okay.”

  
“Stage fright?” Zayn offered him, smile wide but eyes alight with concern.

  
“Just a twinge,” Harry replied.

  
“Are you going to go back out there or not?” Sophia snapped from the doorway. “We can only stall them for so long, Harry.”

  
“Fuck off, Sophia, will you?” Zayn said without giving her so much as a glance. She smacked her lips angrily and drew in a breath Harry heard whistle through her teeth, but before she could tear Zayn apart, Harry nodded.

  
“Give me a minute, will you?” he asked Sophia. “One minute. Tell them I’m sick. But tell them I’m going to finish the show because they’re so fucking important to me, if it’ll make them shut up.” As Sophia clicked away to return to the stage with the news of his return, Zayn looked hard into Harry’s eyes.

  
“You’ve really started to hate them, haven’t you?” he asked.

  
“I’ve started to hate all of this,” he replied.

  
“When it’s over…” Zayn grimaced, the lines by his mouth deepening. “When this is all over, I want you to be okay. Can you do that for me? Just be okay?”

  
Harry wanted to nod. He wanted to smile. But he couldn’t. Instead he released the cold toilet bowl and tried to remember how to stand.

  
“Need help?” Zayn asked. Harry refused, using the toilet to lever himself up, and once he found his legs he wavered on the spot and wiped at his mouth. He tasted vomit and vodka at the back of his throat and he moved to the single dirty sink to rinse at his mouth and gargle water. Zayn stood behind him, arms crossed, and Harry chose to look at him in the mirror instead of at himself. He knew exactly how he looked; he looked like hell. The bags under his grey-green eyes never went away and he looked like he needed three days’ worth of sleep and food; his cheeks were hollow and he was so pale he might as well have been a ghost. No, he knew exactly how he looked. He didn’t need a reminder now.

  
“Are you ready?” Zayn asked as he spit a mouthful of water into the sink.

  
“Yeah,” he gruffly replied. He chanced a glance at himself and took in his pale lips, slick with spit, and the sweat beading at his temples. He looked away as quickly as he could. “You first.”


	2. Chapter 2

Every last fucking night was the same as the one before. Harry had no idea how but he showed up to every show and he sang as hard as he could (he wasn’t satisfied until he could taste blood in the back of his raw and throbbing throat). Denver rolled into Vegas and Vegas turned into Sacramento. The faces in the front row changed but their voices did not. Thanks to grainy videos of the show in Denver, every night it was the same. Someone would scream at the top of their lungs, “Harry, look at us!” and before anyone on stage had a chance to react, they were all shouting the same thing. It was chaos. It wore Harry down and he bowed his head and Zayn always said the same thing because Zayn was good and he knew exactly what to say. 

“Why would he look at you when he can look at me?” he asked the wild crowd in Washington. 

“Do you really think if he looks at you, he’ll hop down there and confess his love to you or something?” he asked, eyes gleaming as he laughed, to the rapt audience in South Dakota. They loved to be taunted and teased, they fucking lived for it, and it made Harry sick to listen to as he stared at the relative safety of his worn out black sneakers. 

In Oklahoma he told them, “If Haz looks at you, he’ll only imagine you all naked, and he’s a goner if he does that. He can’t perform with a fucking hard on, you idiots!” The crowd went wild. It was all Harry could do to stand rooted to his spot onstage. He wanted to bolt; he wanted to fucking run without a pause to look back. He wanted this to end. But when the screaming started he closed his eyes and remembered the pills locked safely in the tour bus and it helped just enough to get him through. He heard the waver in his voice. He heard the strength leaving him. But what choice did he have but to keep singing and wait for the end? 

September 18th brought The Troves to Austin, Texas. September 19th to Baton Rouge. September 21st to Tallahassee. Harry hated to see the anger in Sophia’s eyes when he asked her where they were; it was much easier to ask Jeff as he pressed Harry’s earpiece into his ear or as he readied the equipment in the back of the venue. He was kind about it. He never asked why Harry had trouble with his memory. But he never smiled, either, and Harry wasn’t stupid. He knew Jeff was as sick of him as everyone else was. But still, he was patient, far more so than Sophia, and he always answered Harry without looking at him. 

“We’re in D.C.,” he told Harry. 

“New Jersey.”

“New York City.”

“Right, right,” Harry said, waving Jeff’s words away like he already knew the answer to the question before it left his mouth. New York City. Harry could handle that. It was unseasonably chilly outside the venue and Harry sat inside, in a loft above the stage, where he could see out at the line forming by the front door. It was hardly noon and it was hardly above freezing but still the line snaked around the corner and Harry couldn’t see the end from where he sat. Meticulous in a useless attempt to keep his mind off the three shows they were about to play in this venue, Harry began to count the waiting faces. The front of the line was always the same, girls in pairs or trios or quartets coming as early as the sun to stand front row center in front of Harry. He never liked the attention he got from girls like that. They wanted so fucking much from him and he couldn’t keep them happy. He let his eyes rove over the rest of the crowd; the faces were always so young. Harry felt decades older than the teens and the barely twenty-ones who huddled against the brick building. Huddled himself on the opposite side of the wall, Harry leaned his forehead on the window and waited alone to hear the inevitable shout from below coming from Zayn. They would have to sound check and practice and steel themselves for night one of three; impossibly, The Troves had sold the goddamn place out three nights in a row. 

It was miraculous to Harry that people even paused to listen. It was insane to him to think of how far they had come. But he couldn’t control the fear of what they still had left to do. After the tour they would have to tell the world that the band was done. They would have to break hearts. They would have to cope with the aftermath, like building up a town ravaged by a storm. 

God, Harry had been so stupid to think that this band would be his forever. 

He drew his knees to his chest and released a long breath that rattled in his chest on the way out. Somehow it calmed his nerves to watch the crowd outside grow bigger and bigger as the sun sank lower and lower. They were happy. They laughed and smiled and peered with excited eyes at the tour bus parked on the curb. Harry and the crowd both knew the rest of the band’s routine; one by one they would emerge from the bus and pause to speak to the waiting fans. Zayn loved to pose for pictures and Niall and Liam never said no to autographs. They made the fans happy. 

But the ones in the front of the line never stopped asking for Harry. 

Zayn made excuses for him because he was so, so good and Harry never thanked him for it. He told the fans, “He’s just not feeling well today,” or “He’s playing hard to get,” or “Don’t tell him I told you but he’s honestly very shy.” Harry didn’t mind any of that. Anything to get them to accept that he was never going to stand out there with them in the cold. He used to. He used to take pictures and sign arms and shoes and scraps of paper, but that was before. 

(Why did they stick around; why did they love him after all he put them through?)

Lost in his reverie, Harry missed the footsteps nearing him until Jeff’s head appeared at the top of the rickety ladder that led to the loft. 

“Hey,” he said. Without waiting for Harry to reply, he said, “Sitting up here alone and feeling sorry for yourself?” He said it with a dopey smile on his face and Harry pretended he didn’t want to punch it out of him. 

“Something like that,” he admitted through painfully gritted teeth. 

“Zayn is heading out there now to talk to the kids,” Jeff said. “But I know what they’re gonna say to him.”

“’Where’s Harry?’” Harry guessed. 

“Yeah,” Jeff nodded. “That’s what they always say. They miss you; why don’t you go back out there?”

“Did Zayn put you up to this?” The blush that crept up Jeff’s cheeks was all the answer Harry needed. He looked away, watching as the tour bus door burst open and every face in the crowd turned to stare. When Zayn’s goofy face appeared they cheered, whooping with glee, and Zayn beamed and took a bow before hopping off the bus and closing the door behind him. Harry felt a twinge of pain he hadn’t felt in a long time; guilt hit him hard at the sight of how happy Zayn was. He belonged in a band full of people still excited about the world. Harry hoped Zayn found another band to play in once all this was over. He deserved happiness. Just like everyone else in this band, he deserved so much more than Harry. 

“Well, anyway,” Jeff coughed from behind him, his short lived mission to have Harry join him failed. “I gotta finish unloading the bus. See you soon.” He clambered down the ladder and Harry listened as he walked away. Harry looked forward to the silence until he realized he could hear every word Zayn spoke down below. 

“I’ll tell him,” Zayn said to a girl three people back from the very front of the line. “But I keep telling you guys and you don’t listen. I see you in the front row every fucking night and you keep screaming at him.” Harry perked up, brow furrowing as he leaned closer against the glass. The four girls Zayn spoke sternly to looked back at him, craning their necks to stare at him (he was no taller than Harry but he towered over the girls and Harry always felt so small beside him anyway). 

“If you don’t cut it out with the goddamn screaming, he’s going to lose his mind. And if that happens, I will personally make sure you assholes are banned from every show we put on for the rest of your lives. Got it?” The girls looked terrified. They nodded. Zayn grimaced, rubbing at the back of his neck, and Harry could see the regret on his face. He hated getting angry. He hated fighting. It just was not in him to pick a fight. Drained, he sagged as he said, “Look, I’m sorry for being so harsh. I love that you guys have been following us for a couple days. But I hate what your screaming does to Harry and it needs to stop.”

 

The girls nodded. Zayn was so good and Harry knew he ought to thank him before he lost him to someone who would treat him well. Zayn made his way down the line, shaking hands and giving hugs, and just before he disappeared around the corner of the building, Liam and Niall burst as one out of the bus. 

“Never fear, the cavalry’s here!” Niall shouted, pumping his arms as the crowd began to scream anew at the sight of them. Liam smirked, stoic as always, but he was a good sport and he followed Zayn and Niall down the line towards the back of the building. 

Harry desperately needed something to calm his nerves before the sight of the energetic crowd shook him to pieces. His hands trembled as he stood on shaky legs, dusting off the seat of his tight black jeans. What he really wanted was a pill or two from the bus but with the fans milled around it like a shrine, the bottle may as well have been on another planet. He settled on the idea of a smoke in the back of the building, where the exit would spill him out into an enclosed alley where no one could reach him. The Troves had played this venue before, in the summer of 2012, and Harry remembered the nights he spent curled up on the piss scented pavement and smoked before and after every show. Once in a while a fan would poke their head around the corner near the street and peer down (they always looked for him; they hunted him like an animal because they just had to talk to him or see him or tell him how much he meant to them), and Harry would snuff out his cigarette and wait for them to disappear. 

 

That summer was the beginning of the mess he had sunken into. That was the summer it stopped being fun. Now, over two years later, it had never gotten better. Why would it? Harry hadn’t changed. He always stayed exactly the same (scared, so fucking scared, but until this stupid tour he was always able to hide it). 

The ladder creaked as Harry made his way out of the loft. His sneakers landed soft on the hardwood floor and he craned his neck to peek outside and make sure his bandmates could not see the hiding space he had carved out for himself. As far as he knew, they had no idea about the exit in the corner and Harry wanted to keep it that way. He figured he deserved his own private sanctuary. Even if he didn’t, he was selfish and he was going to keep the secret to himself. 

Jeff had joined the rest of Harry’s band outside and as he bullshitted with the fans (they loved him even though he wasn’t part of the band; he had been with them for so long that he himself had his own legion of fans) Harry tiptoed out the back. The venue was eerie in its silence; they always were before a show. The stage had already been set up by Jeff and the other two roadies that morning and sound check would be as soon as the boys decided to stop gabbing and get inside. Even Liam loved to talk to the fans even though he’d never admit it. Niall and Zayn and Liam loved the attention, each in their own way. Harry was the only one who never got the taste for it. He wondered for a long time if something was broken in him. But now as he wandered the venue with his pack of cigarettes already clenched in one hand he knew the answer. 

 

The late afternoon air was cold as it slapped Harry in the face, chilly but not quite yet with the frigid bite of winter. Harry slipped through the heavy metal door and left it ajar, pulling one cigarette from his pack and sticking it behind his ear before sticking the pack in the door to keep it from closing behind him. The sun hung low in the sky and it shone through the cracks between buildings; Harry threw an arm across his eyes and turned his back to the sky. He walked backwards, tripping over rocks and cracks in the cement, and at the corner of the building he leaned on the bricks warmed by the sun and closed his eyes. He slipped his lighter from one pocket and stuck his cigarette between his teeth. Harry could hear wind weaving through the buildings around him but he was sheltered from it where he stood and his cigarette lit on the first try. The first inhale was glorious and the second even better, the smoke and the nicotine easing the tension in his body. Later he would swallow some pills to help him sleep but for now, this was just enough to keep him keeping on. 

It was nearly impossible to keep the wide eyed girls from the front of the line out of his head, though, and dark thoughts of having to sing before them tonight brought new fear in a slow burn to his chest. He coughed once and then again as he tried to think of anything but the girls who would be standing at the barricade way too soon with their hands desperately searching for his. (Why did he always do this to himself; why couldn’t he stop thinking of the things that he feared the most?) Maybe he could get better if he could ease the thoughts from his mind but he was hopeless at distracting himself. The closest thing he had to forgetting the fears plaguing him was writing them down. Putting the thoughts into songs used to be his release. Now it was closer to saying, “Here, you guys. Take these words and use them against me because I can’t handle them anymore.” 

 

Why did he always do this to himself; why couldn’t he stop thinking of the things that he feared the most? He was an idiot and he never did anything but feel sorry for himself and smoke in secret in hidden alcoves behind concert venues. His fingers got the most of the cold sting in the air and he nearly dropped his cigarette as he flicked ashes off the end. He cursed his clumsy hands and tucked the cigarette between his teeth to hitch the collar of his winter coat up (Zayn was the one who insisted he buy it at a stop in between shows a few weeks back; Harry would have never given a second thought to something like a winter coat and that was why Zayn deserved so much better). Stuffing his hands deep in the pockets of the gray wool coat (“You could wear it to talk to fans in line, Haz,” Sophia had said as she examined how he looked in it in the mirror at the store), Harry closed his eyes again and leaned into the wall. He let himself slide down to his butt, the back of his expensive, tight fitting and (in his opinion) ugly coat snagging on the bricks. The cement was colder than the air but as Harry released smoke to the sky and he could see orange and red behind his eyelids from the setting sun, he felt comfortable enough to ignore the shiver rolling up his spine. 

He used to gather song lyrics from moments like this. The Troves, by contract, were to put out a new record by the end of next summer, after the Head Space tour was over and done with. Harry had no idea what he would tell the record label to get out of it; all he knew was that he had to. His life depended on it, he thought with a turn of his stomach, but with a grimace he thought leaving the band was not a guarantee of his sanity, either. But he had to get out of this life before it took the life out of him. It was all he could think of as he sat, alone and cold and hidden from the world. Zayn would be calling his cell phone soon, the custom ringtone Harry had set for him years ago ringing out in the alley. (It was a song the two of them had loved together; a song by a band Harry could no longer think of the name of.) But for now he was blissfully, finally alone. 

Harry did not hear the footsteps approaching him. All at once a shadow fell over him and he sat up with a start, his eyes flying open. He took his cigarette from his lips and stubbed it out on the cement and the owner of the shadow stepped closer. Harry took in the shadow’s battered sneakers and the bottoms of tight blue jeans. And Harry burned his fingertips on the hot remnants of his cigarette and he cursed, clumsy and all stumbling fingers. “Oops, fuck!” he cried, nursing his fingers as they stung in the cold.And then the shadow began to speak. 

“Hi,” the shadow said. “I didn’t mean to scare you. Did I scare you?” 

“No,” Harry snapped without meaning to. He was angry at being torn from his solitude and he was angry that on day one of three his hiding place was already discovered. He would have to find somewhere new to pass the hours before the next two shows and he was irate by the time he craned his neck to look up at whoever was bothering him. The owner of the shadow, a boy maybe a year or two younger than Harry, blocked the sun and smiled down at Harry with a smile like a shark’s mouth. 

“Hi,” the shadow said. “I’m Louis. I’m sorry I scared you.”

 

“You didn’t scare me,” Harry grumbled in reply. He didn’t scare. He simply didn’t. He was afraid of a lot of things, that was true, but being afraid was something far different from being scared. Being scared meant losing control. Being afraid was a defense, protection from things that could hurt him. Fear was something Harry could grapple with and fight, but if he was scared then it was all over. He had lost. He thought, back in Denver, that it had been time to admit he was scared. But he hadn’t. He hadn’t. And so he earned the right to defy being scared, he thought, and this kid was not about to tell him that he was scared. Wishing he had it in him to shout at the shadow, at Louis, Harry looked up at him and waited for the boy to reply. 

Instead of shrinking away from him like everyone else did, Louis laughed. It was a ridiculous sound, bouncing around in an echo across the alley, and it was Harry’s turn to shrink away. This boy was not only annoying and rude, he was loud. Harry did not do well around people who were loud and he gathered his breath to tell the boy just that when the kid stopped and wiped the smile off his face. 

“I’m sorry,” he said, suddenly solemn. “I didn’t scare you. I agree.” Harry was sure the look he gave the kid would have sent anyone else in the world running. But this kid just stood there, towering over Harry like he had the goddamn right to be standing in Harry’s sanctum, and Harry wanted him gone. 

“Can you leave me alone?” Harry asked. He did not try to sound polite. He didn’t care; this kid looked like he needed a lot more than a gentle hint. 

Louis nodded but did not move to leave. “Want help getting up?” he asked Harry, and he offered one hand out to him. Harry eyed the slender hand in his face, the middle finger decorated with an ornate silver ring sporting two emeralds off-centered near the middle. 

“No,” Harry said shortly. Louis did not drop his hand. 

“I didn’t expect to see anyone back here,” Louis said, undeterred. “This is the spot I usually go to avoid the crowd out front.”

Harry’s heart skipped a beat. He buried his face in his hands, jerking his knees to his chest to press his forehead on them. This could not be happening. 

“Hey, wait,” Louis said, realizing what he just admitted to, and Harry ignored him. “I’m sorry, fuck, I shouldn’t have come back here, I…” He trailed off, swearing under his breath, and Harry fought to regain control of his breathing. Louis was a fan. He was a goddamn fan and he had found Harry back here by some stroke of luck and whatever it was that the kid wanted from him Harry could not and would not give it to him. Harry sat curled in on himself, the lapels of his coat burying his face, and he took deep breaths into his knees. (Why wouldn’t his heart slow? Was he about to fucking croak back here in an alley, hiding like a fucking coward?) 

“Are you okay?” Louis asked. “I’m so sorry.”

(Don’t be sorry, God, don’t be sorry, it was Harry’s fault for thinking he was safe out here where the scent of his cigarette still hung in the air and made his throat clench.) 

“Do you need any help?” 

(Leave me alone, I’m not good; I’m terrible and there is nothing for you here.)

“Hey…” Harry heard a pair of knees hit the pavement and all at once Louis’s hands were on him. If it were Zayn or Jeff, or Sophia digging her nails into him, Harry would have shoved their hands away. But Louis was gentle, hands soft on Harry’s shoulders, and he began to mutter close to Harry’s ear. 

“Hey, I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m real sorry; I didn’t think anyone would be back here. I didn’t come here hunting you down or anything; I promise. There are girls out there wondering where you are and I heard them planning to wait outside the tour bus tonight. I don’t know why I’m telling you that but hey, now you have a head’s up. They’re pretty rude, right? Like I said, I come to shows here a lot and I always come back here to escape them. I guess we just had the same idea this time, right?”

 

He spoke complete nonsense and Harry didn’t listen to a word. But then it began to work wonders on his back and the aching of his neck; Louis spoke softly and Harry began to relax (enough to keep breathing, anyway, and stop trembling like a fucking junkie). 

“It’s okay, Harry, I’ve had panic attacks before. It’ll go away. It really will.” Harry wanted to snap that he did not have panic attacks and this certainly was not one of them. But he didn’t. Louis filled the silence. “You’ll be okay. You always are. You know you’re incredible onstage, Harry. I mean that.” (Stop speaking to me like you know me; you have no idea how hard it is to act okay on that fucking stage.) “You really leave me in awe a lot of the time and I really mean that. I’ve seen you guys seven times and this’ll be my eighth and…” Harry had had enough. He was fine and he was okay and this boy was trying to hack away at the wall Harry built around himself using careful words as a sledgehammer and Harry was not having it. He gathered himself and before he could lose his nerve he jerked his head to look up at the jabbering boy. And as soon as Harry looked up he regretted it. The look of pity in the boy’s face was almost too much for Harry to handle. Why did everyone look at him like that? Did they think he wanted sympathy? He didn’t. He was fine. 

Harry spoke and he was glad at the steadiness he managed to pull into his voice. “Stop looking at me like that,” he said, and Louis darted his eyes away to rearrange his expression and bring a carefully set smile to his face. 

“Better?” he asked. 

“Yeah.” Louis looked hard into Harry’s face and Harry looked back at him, twinges of shame hitting him at the realization of how pathetic he must look. He shrugged Louis’s hands off and he dropped them to his lap, eyes planted firmly on Harry’s. 

“Stop looking at me…period,” Harry tried. 

“Sorry.” Louis looked down at his hands as he twisted them in his lap and Harry tried to gather up the pieces of his dignity without looking like he realized it was gone. 

“I’m fine,” Harry told him even though he had said it already enough times to build a house of I’m fines. 

“I know,” Louis said. He chanced a glance up at Harry and he caught a glimpse of crystal blue irises under dark eyelashes before Louis looked down again. Harry looked at the mess of light brown hair buried under the collar of Louis’s denim jacket and all at once he felt like laughing. It was absurd to be sitting here with a boy in a denim jacket under the setting sun, talking about nothing as Harry tasted the aftermath of panic on his tongue. He should laugh. It was absurd that he wanted it. The desire to laugh was so unfamiliar that Harry clapped a hand over his mouth in shock the moment the first sharp chuckle escaped him. 

“Are you okay?” Louis asked. He looked up at Harry and his eyes widened in disbelief as he saw what must have looked insanity in Harry’s face. Because Harry could not stop laughing. Harry laughed at the simple beauty of the color of Louis’s eyes and at the nonsensical words that had torn him from his self-loathing and at the awful smell of this stupid alley. 

“I’m fine,” Harry choked, and he buried his face again in his knees to get his laughter to stop echoing in the alley. Louis’s hands were on him again and he didn’t mind, his fingers gentle as they landed on Harry’s knees, and with every laugh that shook his entire body, those fingers tightened and a laugh escaped Louis in return. For whatever reason Harry was not scaring this kid and Louis sat with him as he tried to pull himself back together. If Zayn or Niall or Liam had burst through the door at that moment they would have dragged Harry to the hospital, convinced he was in the middle of a nervous breakdown. It was insane and it made no sense to Harry that here this stranger was, sitting with Harry and laughing with him like this was something normal. 

Harry couldn’t even remember normal anymore.

And just as the shaking inside Harry’s body began to slow, the phone in his pocket rang. 

“Oh, fuck me,” Harry sighed, wiping tears from his eyes, and he wrestled the phone from the pocket of his jeans and Louis’s hands lifted from his knees. “Stay there,” Harry ordered Louis like it was normal for him to ask for anyone to stay. Louis nodded solemnly and Harry jabbed at the screen of his phone and said, 

“What?” 

There was a pause so long on the other end that Harry pulled the phone from his ear to peer at the screen and make sure Zayn had not hung up. 

“Zayn?” he asked the silence. 

“Where are you?” Zayn asked, voice cautious. Before Harry could reply he added, “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Harry assured him, a broken goddamn record. 

“You sound fucked up. Are you fucked up?” Sophia’s voice coming from somewhere close to Zayn nearly choked the air from Harry’s lungs. 

“If he’s fucked up, tell him he’s fucking done!” Sophia cried, and Harry said,

“I’m fine, Zayn.” Zayn was silent for a long time and finally he sighed. 

“Okay. Look, wherever you are, you need to come in for sound check now. Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Harry agreed. He hung up before Zayn could get another word in and for the hundredth time since beginning this tour he resisted the urge to lob the phone against the brick wall. “I gotta go,” Harry told Louis. “Sound check.” 

“Right,” Louis said. An awkward silence settled over them and Harry had no idea if he should thank the kid or order him to go away. “Want help getting up now?” He leapt to his feet and once again offered a slim hand to Harry. But this time Harry took it. As cold as Harry’s hands were, Louis’s felt warm as he helped Harry unfold to his feet. 

“Thanks,” Harry said shortly. He tried to put power behind it, he really did (thank you for making me laugh and it was weird and you’re fucking weird but I don’t know what just happened and I think I should be thanking you), and Louis grinned. He had a smile that stretched from ear to ear and from anyone else, Harry would have hated to see it widening his face like that. Harry moved to touch Louis (clap a hand on his shoulder, shake his hand, what is it a normal man would do?) but Louis stepped sideways and evaded him. Harry pretended not to notice. 

“I’ll see you at the show, then, right?” Louis asked. Was he blushing? What the hell was he blushing for? 

“Uh,” Harry said weakly. “Yeah. I mean, I probably won’t see you but you’ll see me.” 

“Right.” Now that Harry stood side by side with Louis he stood a couple inches taller than the kid and Louis’s eyes flicked upwards to meet Harry’s as they tried to say goodbye. 

“Well,” Harry said at the same time that Louis said, “So…”

“You go first,” Louis tried at the same time Harry asked him, “What were you going to say?” The pause that filled the alley was almost enough to make Harry dissolve into hysterics again. Louis did not dodge this time when Harry dropped a hand onto his shoulder. 

“Okay, I’ll see you later,” Harry said. Why he said that, he had no idea, but once it slipped from him Louis’s eyes lit up and it was too late to take it back. 

“Right,” Louis said as if he did not want to press his luck and ask Harry for confirmation of what he had just said. 

“Bye,” Harry said before Louis could get another word in. Harry turned from him, dipped down to grab his pack of cigarettes from the door, and he slammed it shut behind him and stepped inside. He tried not to think of the smile dancing on Louis’s lips as Harry closed the door in his face and when he made his way backstage to join Zayn and the rest of the band, Zayn raised his eyebrows at Niall and the two of them shrugged at each other instead of asking Harry what was the cause of his suddenly lightened mood. 

It was easier that way, Harry assumed, and if they weren’t going to say a word, neither was he.

 

Harry owed Zayn the biggest apology in the world. For the first time in close to two weeks the front row did not scream at Harry. They still shouted and cried and jumped for joy but not once did a cry of, “Look at us, Harry!” ring out across the room. For that, Harry was so grateful he thought he might cry. Without them screaming in his face he was able to stand still, his hands trembling but only just, and when he opened his eyes to the crowd they went wild. He couldn’t see the eyes of any face in the crowd, the front row full of phone screens, and that made it almost easy to sing to the crowd for the first time in a long time. 

 

Finally they were satisfied. For the moment, they were happy to be seen by Harry, and he had forgotten how good it felt to be loved by them. What was he so afraid of? Why did he hide alcohol under his bed and in the nooks under the bus? Why could he do anything but pull himself together? Harry sang with all he was worth and the crowd screamed back to him with the same. He gave it all he had. Why had it been so long since he gave them every piece of him? 

It did not take long for him to remember. After the show, Harry felt invincible. He dripped with sweat and blinked it out of his eyes, swiping back his wild chestnut hair with one hand and lighting a cigarette with the other. He followed Zayn and Niall and Liam back to the tour bus. If they saw the change in him tonight they did not let on. They were quiet as the four of them headed towards the front door of the venue long after the last of the fans spilled from the door and out into the cold night. Zayn led the way and as soon as he burst through the door, the girls waiting outside the bus whooped and cheered. Harry walked on and pretended he was not feeling the first twinges of anxiety in his blood. He could do this. He could do this! 

Zayn stopped first to take pictures with the waiting girls; they had taken the same damn pictures with him that afternoon but Harry was not stupid and he knew what they hung around for. They wanted what all fans wanted- to be friends with the band. To be part of the band, to be invited on the bus and let inside. Why the girls thought they would get what they wanted was a mystery to Harry; the last time The Troves had let girls on the bus was back when they were first starting out and they thought they were badass for having groupies. They never invited anyone on the bus anymore. They knew Harry was a ticking time bomb and there were far too many secrets hidden in the bus to risk a fan seeing inside and ruining it all. 

How long ago it felt now, those nights when Zayn would light a joint and pass it to Harry who would pass it to whichever girl sat at his side with reverence in her wide eyes. They used to be so stupid and they were no smarter now but there were some things they were smart enough to avoid. But still, just as these girls were dumb enough to scream at Harry as he wavered onstage, they were dumb enough to hope one of the boys would fall in love with them. Harry could have told them that Liam was too serious, Niall too carefree, and Zayn too afraid of commitment to fall in love. And Harry knew anyone would be stupid to fall in love with him; he was a train wreck anyone could detect from a thousand miles away. 

Still, they tried. They fucking flirted with all their might and the boys ate it up because they loved girls almost as much as they used to love this fucking band, and at the end of the night they would retire to the bus and joke about all the girls they could have had. 

“We’ve seen eighteen of your shows,” a girl with tousled blonde and pink hair and a bandana decorated like the American flag said to Zayn. “Did I already tell you that?”

“Yes,” Zayn said, with a laugh because he was kind, and the girl’s friend added in,

“You guys get better and better every time.” Harry did not mean to laugh out loud but he did, choking on the smoke in his mouth as he leaned on the tour bus by Zayn’s side, and the girl turned to look at him. “What?” she asked, all sharp angles and sharp elbows as she stared at him. Zayn shook his head behind hers with a look on his face that said, “Please don’t; stop before you say something stupid,” but Harry was stupid and he never, ever listened to Zayn. 

“Have you actually seen us play or were you too busy shoving your phones in my face and screaming at me?” Zayn looked like he wanted to shrink into the bus and never come out, and even Liam and Niall paused their flirting to dart their eyes in Harry’s direction. 

“We just wanted you to look at us,” the girl snapped. “Is that so hard? We love you guys and we feel like we deserve to be noticed.” Harry tried not to let it show on his face how badly he wanted to push the girl up against the bus and shout at her until she stopped running her mouth. 

Instead of giving in to what he wanted, Harry dropped his cigarette butt and stubbed it out with one sneaker. 

“I don’t owe you anything,” Harry said before he could stop himself. He looked down as the girl’s mouth fell open in a perfect mirror of Zayn’s. 

“Haz, man, we owe them our career,” Zayn said tersely. But Harry had let his anger take over and it was not about to dissipate. 

“We really support you guys,” the small girl agreed. Harry did not look up from his sneakers. 

“We love you,” her friend reiterated, and Harry wanted to bellow. 

(You know nothing about us; don’t fucking pretend you can love me, love us, without even pausing to think that you don’t know us.)

But he didn’t. He had to walk away before he buried himself in a hole he couldn’t get out of. This was about to get out of hand and Harry knew enough to walk away before he exploded. 

“Yeah,” Harry snapped. “And I fucking love you, too.” As the girls sputtered and Harry looked up to see Zayn’s face go white with fury, he tucked his hands into his pockets and left them to stare after him. Zayn gathered himself enough to call, 

“Haz, where are you going?” but Harry ignored him. 

“Fuck off,” Harry muttered to himself instead of to the people he really wanted to tell off as he walked away.

“Who are you talking to?” a voice from somewhere in the dark said. Harry paused, hands deep in his pockets and his head about to burst, and he waited for the voice to appear. When the owner of the voice meandered out of the dark, Harry was shocked to feel the smile bloom on his face. 

“Louis,” Harry called to the voice. Was that relief he felt bright in his chest? It was not as if Louis was a familiar face but still his presence caused an undeniable spark of something happy and warm inside him. 

“Hey,” Louis replied as Harry closed the distance between them. From where they stood the lights of the venue and of the tour bus were dim and Louis’s toothy grin was bathed in shadow. “Are you running from something?”

“Someone,” Harry replied. 

“You were amazing up there tonight,” Louis said. 

“Not really.”

“You were. You looked good up there. Alive.”

“I’m alive out here, too,” Harry reminded him. 

“Not as much as you are onstage.” 

Harry had no idea what to say to that. Instead of replying, he looked away from the bright blue of Louis’s eyes. 

“I’m sorry,” Louis said. “We can talk about whatever you want. How long do you have?”

“All night,” Harry replied. He was glad when, unlike all the other people who begged for his eyes on theirs, Louis did not seem to mind Harry’s tendency to hide his face. 

“Great,” Louis grinned. “Are you hungry?” 

“Sure,” Harry lied. Most of the time Zayn had to remind him to eat; hunger was not an impulse Harry tended to pay attention to. As a result he knew he was gaunt and pale and prone to shaking in the cold, but beyond that he was a lot of other things that mattered more. Louis did not pick up on the lie or he was kind enough to ignore it if he did. 

“Great,” Louis said. Harry could even hear the smile in his voice. “I’ll buy you dinner.” Harry laughed with a shake of his head. 

“I’ll buy you dinner,” Harry replied. The two of them paused, Harry sizing Louis up without meaning to, and Louis tossed his head back and barked a laugh at the stars in the sky. By the time he recovered and locked eyes with Harry again, he was too happy and far too excited to look away. Something about the open brightness of Louis’s eyes made Harry feel (safe and good and happy and right and alive and strange) all right, and he did not want to look at anything but Louis for as long as he could. (What was wrong with him; this was not right, this was not like him at all.) 

“Look,” Louis laughed. “I’ll buy this time. Next time, you buy.” 

Next time. Harry was not good at people and he was worse at friends, but the idea of seeing Louis did not set him into a panic and he smiled as he thought about it. 

“Okay,” Harry agreed. “Next time.” 

“Great,” Louis said. “Come with me.” Harry followed Louis for a couple of blocks, the tour bus fading far away from them, before he asked where they were heading. 

“Well,” Louis said, brandishing his arms to the night sky. “Seeing as I’m nearly flat broke, how do you feel about fast food?” Harry was surprised to feel his stomach grumble loudly enough for Louis to hear at the thought. 

“I love it,” Harry replied. Again Louis laughed and again Harry’s heart soared. A few more blocks of space between Harry and his band and Louis led Harry through the front door of a shitty fast food place. 

“Pick anything you’d like,” Louis said with a theatrical wave towards the menu blinking on the wall. “As long as it’s from the dollar menu.” Harry chuckled, sure Louis would reject him if he offered to pay tonight, but he tried anyway. “No,” Louis said sternly. “Order what you like and tomorrow you can take me to a nicer place. Right?” He smiled and Harry smiled. Tomorrow. After the show. Fine. Sure. That sounded good to Harry. What was wrong with him? 

As they sat across the hard plastic table from each other, Harry gnawing on French fries and Louis trying to talk around a burger, Harry listened rapt to every word spilling from Louis’s lips. 

“I work in this really shitty restaurant a few blocks away; the pay is garbage but it’s enough to pay my rent, I guess. I’ve lived here for seven years now. I know I don’t look it but I’m nearly twenty-two.”

“You’ve uh…” Harry swallowed and tried again, trying to keep concern from his voice. “You’ve been living here, in the city, since you were fifteen? With your parents?”

“No,” Louis said. “Alone.” Harry paused. He dropped his eyes; Louis’s looked far too open all of a sudden and Harry couldn’t look at them. 

“Ah,” Harry breathed.

“I’ll tell you the story of my life someday, Harry,” Louis said. “Another day.”

“Tomorrow?” Harry asked without meaning to (and without immediately yearning to reel it back in; was he broken?). 

“Maybe the day after.” 

“Okay.” Louis grinned and Harry grinned and he tried not to wonder why that was. 

But Harry was an addict at heart and he thought Louis’s wide smile and dancing eyes could be a brand new addiction. He could not remember the last time he made a real friend, a real connection, and it was stupid and maybe just a little bit crazy to see a future with Louis in it, but Harry was pretty goddamn stupid and crazy himself. The longer he had across a sticky table from Louis the more pronounced the (longing) desire to keep this connection grew. And Louis was a fan and Harry was being thick but he couldn’t help himself; he watched Louis laugh and talk and speak nonsense, gabbing around French fries about nothing at all.

Somehow Harry knew that this boy was different from anyone he had ever met before.

“And I really love this city,” Louis said as he gnawed at the straw between his teeth. “It’s my favorite place in the world. I was born far away but I want to die here, I think…” The thought of dying made Harry squirm in his chair as he wondered how the hell Louis ended up here, and Louis frowned for a moment at the sight of Harry’s discomfort. “I’m sorry,” Louis said. “D’ya want me to shut up?”

“Never,” Harry was stupid enough to reply. And the smile Louis shot at him could have lit up the night sky outside. 

Later, on the long walk back to the tour bus and to the world Louis helped Harry escape, it was Harry’s turn to speak. He was not eloquent and he was not brave but he tried his best and Louis listened well. 

“I just feel trapped in this life sometimes,” Harry said. All the things he desperately wanted to tell Zayn and tell the fans who did not understand but wanted so badly to spilled from him and he could do nothing to stop them. He had slit open the part of him hiding all his secrets and they poured like blood from his lips. “I feel trapped in this body and this mind and I don’t know how anyone can go on feeling like this. Am I expected to go forever? Why should I stand there and pretend to love these people who have no respect for the fact that I’m a fucking person, too?”

“You shouldn’t,” Louis agreed. Harry did not shake him off when his hand landed light on his elbow and clung there. Harry felt drunk off his touch and with anyone else in the universe, the thought would have made him blush and run away. 

“Why do you see me, then?” Harry asked. “Why does everyone else in the world see me as an object…and you see me as a human being? Why is that?”

Louis paused for a long time before replying. The tour bus loomed out of the dark and Harry was not ready to go back there and hear the berating Zayn was going to give him for fighting with the girls. Finally Louis said with solemnity that almost made Harry laugh, 

“I just know what it’s like to not be seen. That’s all.”

“That’s a bullshit answer,” Harry snapped back. 

“It’s not.”

“It is.” 

“Harry, if you think that’s not the truth, then the rest of the story is for another day.”

“Tomorrow?”

“Not tomorrow.”

“The next night?”

“No.”

“I have all night, Louis, but not every night.”

“I know that.” 

One block from the tour bus Louis paused and with his elbow still clutched in Louis’s hand, Harry had no choice but to pause with him. 

“Harry, listen to me,” Louis said. 

“I have been all night,” Harry said. 

“Harry, hey.” Instead of demanding and shouting in his face, Louis did something that made Harry ache deep in his guts. He dropped his arm from Harry’s and with both hands steady he pressed them to Harry’s cheeks. (What made him think he could touch Harry like that; he had no goddamn right!) Trapped in Louis’s gaze, Harry fidgeted and grimaced as Louis spoke. “Harry, doesn’t your band make you feel like you’re part of something bigger? Something better than you?”

“Yes,” Harry admitted. Maybe it did long ago; it was hard to remember. 

“Well that’s how you make me feel.” 

“What are you…?” He tried to ask Louis what the hell he was talking about, but the tour bus burst open and Zayn spilled out onto the pavement. Louis dropped his hands and Harry felt anew the sting of the night air as together they turned to face Zayn. 

“Harry, get your ass here right now!” Zayn shouted from a block away. Harry did not reply. Instead, closer to being scared than he had been even in Denver, he turned back to Louis. 

“Go ahead,” Louis said. “I’m sorry I kept you so late.”

“Don’t be.” Harry felt warm all over despite the chill in the air. He had no idea what to say or what to do and Louis stared at him so intently he felt like he might burst into flames. 

“I’ll see you tomorrow?” Louis asked, as if he had no idea how deeply Harry wanted it to be tomorrow night already. 

“Yeah,” Harry said. (Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes.) “Thank you for dinner.”

“I can’t wait to see what you come up with tomorrow,” Louis smirked in reply. He ran a hand through his shaggy hair and brushed it back from his forehead; despite his attempt to neaten it stray locks spilled down past his ears and stuck up at strange angles. 

“Harry!” Zayn screamed, losing his patience and making his way towards him. 

“I better go,” Louis said as if it was the last thing he wanted to do. He turned from Harry, his sneakers slapping the pavement, but Harry called him back. 

“Wait!” he said. Louis grinned as he obeyed. 

“What?”

“Did you really like the show, Louis?” 

“It was one of your best.” With a nod he stuck his tongue out in Zayn’s direction and spun on his heels. He vanished around the street corner and out of Harry’s sight just as Zayn’s hand landed heavy on Harry’s shoulder. 

“What the fuck, Haz?” Zayn snapped. “Why are you ignoring me? Where were you?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Harry managed. He tore his eyes from the direction Louis had left and looked hard at Zayn. His cheeks were pink and his pupils huge, the smell of shitty vodka all over him. “You invited the girls in, didn’t you?” 

“Yeah,” Zayn admitted. He took Harry by the elbow and began to drag him back towards the bus, the gentleness of Louis’s touch a memory beside Zayn’s angry grip. “We figured if you were going to bail on us it would be all right. They’re gone now. The rest of the boys are asleep. It’s just you and me.” 

“Great,” Harry replied.

“What the fuck were you thinking, getting all self-righteous at them? They love you, Haz. Why couldn’t you be nice for once?” Zayn was the best friend Harry had ever had and he deserved so much more than this band, but when he drank Zayn always got mean. He spoke his mind. And he told it like it was. Harry wanted nothing to do with it. As fast as it had come over him, the warm feelings Louis had left him with began to lift. Who was he kidding, laughing with some strange boy over shitty food in a florescent 24 hour shithole? He was Harry fucking Styles and he had better things to do. 

He just had to get past Zayn and to the stash under his bed. 

“You’re an idiot, Haz, and I can’t wait for this tour to be over. Do you hear me? I can’t wait to be done with you.”

“I know that,” Harry said as if it didn’t hurt more than anything he had ever heard come from Zayn. Harry reached for the door of the bus but Zayn shoved him and nearly sent him sprawling. 

“Let me get on the fucking bus, Zayn.” Harry was tired all at once, so tired he could feel it in his bones, and Zayn’s face twisted with fury and Harry was just barely able to dodge to punch that came his way. Zayn was a pacifist. He hated to argue or bicker or fight. But Zayn was drunk and he was not himself and Harry was going to get his face caved in if he did not get away from him as soon as possible. 

“Hey!” Harry shouted as Zayn aimed another blow at his head. Zayn stumbled into the bus, smacking into the side with a groan of protest from the metal, and voices erupted from inside. 

“I hate you, Haz!” Zayn spat. “I hate you; I really do, and sometimes I hate you so much I wish you would die.” Zayn did not try to punch Harry again. But his words were enough to make Harry stumble back as if he had been hit. 

“You don’t mean that…” Harry pleaded, his voice coming out a whine as he prayed Zayn would calm down. Liam and Niall emerged from the bus but stood frozen on the pavement as Zayn shouted. 

“You ruined this band, Haz! It’s broken and it’s because of you.”

“Zayn…” Niall tried, but Zayn shot him a look of pure venom. 

“I hope I never see you again after this tour is over,” Zayn said. “I don’t know how I put up with your bullshit for so long.”

“You don’t mean that,” Harry challenged, but Zayn was not listening. He shoved past Harry, the fight leaving him as he made his way up the steps into the bus, and Liam and Niall stood in silence at Harry’s side. The silence stretched between them for a long moment until Harry cut it with his voice. 

“I’m going to bed,” he said. There would be no escape from Zayn inside the bus; their bunks were separated by curtains and nothing else. But he knew Zayn better than anyone and he knew Zayn would have already shoved the curtain closed and turned his back on the world. Zayn did not fight often but when he did, he avoided everyone for as long as he could afterwards. He would regret his words in the morning. He always did. But for now they stung at him and Harry wanted nothing more than to hide from the angry glares of Niall and Liam. 

“Knock yourself out,” Liam snapped at the same time as Niall offered a meek, “Goodnight, Haz.” 

He clambered onto the bus and clambered into his bunk and collapsed in a heap without bothering to shake his shoes off or undress. All at once the weight of the world pressed in on him from every side and it was all he could do to keep from screaming into his pillow until his fears left him one by one. Sleep did not come easy, and for hours he lay awake and tried to block out the noise of what sounded like crying coming from where Zayn slept barely inches away.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Questions, comments and declarations of love greatly appreciated at ourl0veisgod on tumblr.
> 
> I don't own any of this, blah blah blah. 
> 
> However, all lyrics belong to me (I am a shit lyricist but I wrote all original songs for the band in this book).
> 
> Only two more chapters til they do the do if that's what you're into. Between now and then all I can promise is lots of fluff and lots of angst.

Harry woke up in the morning to the sound of Zayn and Niall having a quiet fight over the sound of the coffee machine in the tour bus kitchenette. He was too foggy to focus on them at first but slowly as their hushed voices grew louder he rolled over behind the curtain of his bunk to listen. 

“I’m not going to apologize,” Zayn said. He slammed a mug too hard on the counter and Harry flinched at the sound. He remembered every word he said last night, then. And this time was different. This time he was not sorry. He was not going to cry to Harry about how wrong he was to say those things. Harry went cold at the thought that maybe this time his best friend truly was finished. 

“You should,” Niall said. “Keep the peace. Haz looked really scared last night.”

“Good,” Zayn said. He paused and then he said, “No, you’re right. He did. But he should know that there’s going to be fucking consequences for his actions from now on. If he hears it from me, maybe then he’ll start to listen.” 

(I’m not a child and I can think for myself; I know I might self-destruct but that’s my fucking choice to make!) 

“He won’t listen to you or anyone and you know it.” Zayn had no reply to that. Zayn thanked Niall as he filled his mug and together they stepped out into the sunlight streaming in through the windows of the bus. Harry listened to the silence for a long moment before making the decision to join them outside, pretending he heard nothing of their conversation. His body creaked as he rolled out of bed, every inch of him sore. The bunks were awful in terms of comfort and of size and even though Harry wasn’t too tall by any stretch he still had to curl up tight to get any sleep at all. 

Harry hated coffee but he was tired and achy and he poured himself a steaming mug, stealing one from the counter with Jeff’s name on it. Still in last night’s clothes, Harry made his way down the steps of the bus and stepped outside. The sun was bright and harsh and three pairs of eyes met Harry as he hit the pavement. 

“Good morning,” he said to his bandmates. 

“Morning,” Niall replied. Liam sipped at the coffee Niall had brought him and Zayn looked at anything but Harry. He expected that. He really did. But it still hurt. Zayn always stuck by him. Zayn was good and he never gave up on him. But this time, maybe he had. 

“Thanks for making the coffee,” Harry offered Niall.

“No problem,” Niall replied. The morning sun bounced off his messy golden hair as he blew into his mug to cool his coffee down. Looking into his coffee was easier than looking at Harry and that was what Niall chose. That was okay. Harry expected that. He deserved it. But when Zayn spoke without looking at him with dullness in his voice, Harry nearly choked.

“So who’s your boyfriend?” Zayn asked. All three pairs of eyes met Harry again and then as one they went back to studying their mugs. 

“What?” Harry asked, trying to fight the threat of a tremor in his voice. 

“I said, who’s your boyfriend?” Zayn repeated. 

“Fuck off,” Harry told his mug, praying with all his might Zayn would let it go. But he knew it was hopeless. Zayn was furious and he was not going to let Harry off the hook for anything. 

“Who is your fucking boyfriend, Haz?” Zayn shouted, and Liam and Niall squared their shoulders and tried to shrink away. Harry looked up, anger building in him, and he stared at Zayn for a long, quiet moment. Zayn did not look back at him. 

“Look at me,” Harry ordered. 

“Look at you?!” Zayn shouted, so loudly that Niall and Liam flinched. “You have the nerve to tell me to look at you after all I’ve done for you? Are you fucking serious?”

“Zayn…” Niall tried. But Zayn was done. He had been Harry’s closest friend for so long that he let rage build inside him, hiding it away, and it was obvious to Harry that now it was about to come out. Zayn launched his mug at the side of the bus, splattering the metal with coffee as the mug shattered on the pavement at Harry’s feet. 

“Zayn!” Liam cried out, finally looking up with shock all over his scruffy face. 

“Shut up!” Zayn shouted. “All of you, shut up! This is between me and Haz and if you don’t want to listen, fuck off!” 

Neither Niall nor Liam moved. They were part of this and they knew it. Harry stood still by the shards of broken ceramic and waited for the dark storm that was Zayn to roll over him. 

“Who was the boy you ran off with last night, Haz? Why won’t you tell me? Why were you so fucking good last night? Is there something I fucking missed? Because you’ve been comatose this entire goddamn tour and last night…fuck!” He spun on his heels, hands to his eyes, and when he turned back around to look at Harry there was anguish deepening the frown on his face. “Last night it was like you were alive again,” he finished. “What happened? Why haven’t I been able to help you, and then suddenly you have the goddamn nerve to tell me to look at you? How can you say that to me after everything you’ve put me…” He paused. Amended. Regrouped. “You’ve put us through?!” 

Niall and Liam looked down at the mention of them and Zayn threw his hands in the air. 

“That’s it,” he said. “I’m done. I quit. Find a new guitar player; there are a hell of a lot of them out there better than me.” He made a move to stomp back into the bus but Harry regained control of his body just in time to block the door. 

“Zayn you’re being crazy,” he said. “Think this through.”

“I talked you down from quitting this band just a few weeks ago, Haz, didn’t I?” Zayn challenged. “Didn’t I? So what gives you the right to beg me to stay now?”

“We need you,” Harry said, voice so meek it sounded pathetic even to his own ears. Zayn glared, all rage and fire, and Harry tried again. “I need you.”

Zayn stood for a long time before replying. “Why don’t you hire your fucking boyfriend instead?” He shoved past Harry into the bus, slamming the door behind him. Harry began to pull on the door handle, intent on begging if he had to (he was alive last night, Zayn said it himself, why couldn’t Zayn see that maybe now he would be okay?) but Liam said,

“Let him go. He deserves a tantrum.”

“He’s been holding it in a long time,” Niall agreed. Harry dropped his hand but it took a lot more courage than he had to turn around and look at his former friends. 

“Is he really done?” he asked. 

“I don’t know,” Liam honestly replied. Liam was always honest, brutal to a fault, and Harry bowed his head as pain sharp as a knife twisted in his chest. He deserved this. This was all his fault. He had to make it right. But Niall protested as he reached again for the door, stepping close and pulling Harry’s arm back. 

“Don’t,” he said. “Please.” 

“He’s my best friend, Niall,” Harry tried, but he knew it was useless. Niall had such pity in his eyes that Harry felt sick at the sight of it. 

 

“He was your best friend a long time ago,” Niall said. 

“Niall…”

“If he’s done, he’s done,” Niall said. “There is nothing you could say to him that could make him change his mind if he’s already set it; you know that.”

“He’s just jealous,” Liam said from behind them, and Niall shot him a warning glance that Harry was not supposed to see. 

“Jealous?” Harry echoed, confused at the look that passed between his bandmates. “Of what?”

“Of your new boy toy who showed up out of nowhere and cured you just like that.” Liam snapped his fingers and Harry lied to himself and pretended it was the sound that made him cringe away from him. 

“Cured me?” he stammered.

“Don’t act like you have no idea what I’m talking about.” 

“Liam…”

There would be no keeping the peace today. 

“Don’t!” Liam snapped. “I’m sick and tired of all this fucking bullshit, Haz. If Zayn is out, so am I.”

“Liam!” Niall shouted again, desperate this time. 

“What?!” Liam barked. 

“You know how hard we’ve worked to get this far,” Niall said, anguish etched so deep in his voice that Harry bowed his head and tried to close his eyes against it. His hand clenched around the mug in his hand and he used it as the anchor to keep him tethered to the pavement. This was not right. This was a nightmare. If sixteen year old Harry had caught a glimpse of this, of this future, The Troves would have never seen the light of day. This was all wrong and every fucking second that passed by made it seem less and less manageable. There was nothing left to salvage; they were a home demolished by a tornado and there was no coming back from it. If this was the end, this was the fucking end, and Harry was not going to try to save it anymore. 

The handle of Harry’s mug shattered in his hand and he swore, the ceramic slamming into the concrete and silencing the bickering of the two broken hearted boys at Harry’s side. 

“Oh, Haz,” Niall breathed, and Harry looked down at his hand to see blood pooling slick and scarlet in his palm. Niall dashed to his side and picked up Harry’s hand, cradling it in both of his own. Niall’s hands cupped Harry’s and he felt like a child as Niall led Harry toward the front door of the venue. The agony in his face forgotten, Niall led Harry down the halls and towards the bathroom. Only when Sophia clicked towards them and began to shriek did Harry feel the pain of the gash in his palm.

“What happened?” Sophia cried, her dark bun disheveled and her grey eyes wide. “Niall, what happened?” she asked as if Harry had no voice of his own.

“I’m fine, Soph,” Harry mumbled. “Broke a mug, that’s all.” Niall gave Harry’s arm a tug and he obeyed, following him with Sophia close behind. Niall was an expert at ignoring Sophia and he tried to close the bathroom door in her face but she stuck one shoe inside the door and followed them to the sink. Harry cried out as Niall turned the faucet on warm over his hand, the blood washing away in a scarlet swirl down the drain, and Sophia’s phone went off in her hand. The moment she read the text appearing on her screen, Harry’s heart stopped. He knew who it was. And what they told her. 

 

“Harry Styles, what did you do?!” Sophia shrieked, anguished to the point of collapsing against the wall of the bathroom in shock. Harry tried to jerk his arm out of the sink but Niall dug his fingers into Harry’s wrist and dabbed with soft hands at his open wound. He wanted nothing to do with this fight. But Sophia was not about to let that happen; there was fire in her eyes. 

“Zayn quit,” she said. “He fucking quit.” She pushed off the wall and lunged for Harry, shoving him out of Niall’s grasp and slamming him into the opposite wall. Water and blood splashed from Harry’s hand as he hit the wall, Sophia’s clawed hands pinning him down. 

“Soph…” Niall tried. He sounded more exhausted than he had ever sounded before (they had stayed awake for three days straight to drive across the country; they had flown to Australia and played a show without a moment of sleep, but here Niall was exhausted and spent after nothing more than a fight) as he spoke and Sophia ignored him. 

“What did you do?” Sophia asked. Her voice was pure poison and there was nothing Harry could do to get away from her. Her pretty face was twisted up with fury and she bared her teeth like she wanted nothing more than to swallow him whole. 

“The usual,” Harry snapped. “I was my old miserable self and Zayn gave up on me.”

“Zayn will calm down,” Niall said. “He didn’t really quit. There’s no way.” 

“Yeah?” Sophia asked. She released Harry and he took in a long, painful breath as she opened up the text Zayn had sent. “’I quit,’” she read. “’There’s nothing you can say to get me to stay so don’t even try. I’m done. Tell everyone I’m done. I’m packing my shit right now and I’m going home.’”

Zayn’s threat hung in the air long after Sophia spat it out. 

“No,” Niall breathed. He slipped a hand over his mouth, the back of his knuckles painted with Harry’s blood, and blood spilled from Harry’s hand onto the tile floor in a steady drip, drip, drip. “We have to go get him,” Niall moaned. “This is so fucked.” He dashed from the bathroom, face green, and Harry made a move to follow him. He couldn’t let Niall do this alone. He had to help him, because Niall was good and he deserved so much better than Zayn and Liam and Harry. 

“You’ve done enough!” Sophia shrieked. “Stay here!”

“Fuck off!” Harry cried. “They’re my best friends and I’m going to talk to them.”

(This can’t be happening; this isn’t real; seven years ago Harry would have glanced at this and felt unimaginable pain.)

“Niall can do so much better than you can and you know it!” 

(That was true, Harry was broken, but he could try.)

“Soph, let me go.” He would not push her around like she did to him but he had to get out of here; he had to get a shot or seven in him before he erupted. He had to get to the bus and try and fix this band up, with duct tape and string if he had to. It was fixable. Anything was. He just had to get out there and do the fixing. 

“I won’t let you go out there and ruin everything! I’ve sat by and let you ruin this whole goddamn band, Haz, but not anymore! Let them fix it!”

She was cruel and she was mean, far from the girl she used to be, and Harry was done listening to her. He shoved past her and she gasped as their shoulders collided (emotional abuse was the thing Harry had perfected; he was not a monster and never in his life would he hurt someone the way Sophia hurt him) and she let him pass. But as he walked as fast as he could towards the front door of the venue, Sophia called after him. 

“Wait!” she cried. “Wait!” He ignored her. “A meeting!” she called. “Can we have a band meeting, please? We can discuss this like adults, Haz!” 

The time for that was long gone. 

“There’s fans already lined up there, Haz!” He froze. He stopped so suddenly that Sophia slammed into his back, bouncing off as he spun on his heels to face her. She straightened her flowing pink blouse and scowled. “They started to arrive right after you two came inside. Do you really want to waltz out there, bloody and angry, and face them like that?”

“No,” Harry replied. That was the last thing he wanted. He peered outside, close enough to see the front door, and his heart sank when he saw that Sophia was right. The girls were already out there, the girls who had stopped screaming at him because of what Zayn asked of them (Zayn was so good, how had Harry pushed him this far?), and Harry bowed his head. 

“That’s what I thought,” Sophia snapped. “Go sit on the stage. The roadies are still asleep and no one will see us there. Wait for me there. I’m going to get the rest of the boys. And we are going to have a meeting.”

There was nothing Harry could say in reply. Without a word he turned from her and walked away. He heard her click towards the front door after a long moment in which he could imagine the look she tossed him. Harry wiped blood on his jeans as he walked towards the back of the venue to the stage. He raised his hand to peer at the wound; the gash was thin but lined his palm from thumb to pinky and he would have to get it bandaged before the show (if there was a show). 

The stage looked like a different world when there was no pressure to perform. It was silent in the room save for the sound of his sneakers on the hardwood floor. He climbed up on the stage and sat on the edge, his shoes dangling above the floor, and he pressed his injured hand to his thigh to try and slow the bleeding. The lights were out and the stage was dim. He let his eyes slip closed (he had a one track mind and with his eyes open he could never recall the memory in his head) and tried to remember the feeling of last night. He felt okay last night. He felt good. Why was that? His one track mind betrayed him and for a long moment he couldn’t remember. But when he did, his eyes flew open.

Louis. The stranger from the alley and the boy who rescued Harry from the fighting after the show. It was Louis who made Harry brave enough to face the crowd with clawing hands. Here it was hard, nearly impossible, to recall the smile on Louis’s face that brought the same to Harry’s, but as he let his eyes close again he could just about see. 

What was wrong with him? He survived (this band clung to life) because Harry did not let people touch him. He shied away from closeness and from people who used to care about him (used to love him, maybe) and because he tried not to care, he was able to carry on. What did he have to gain by letting a stranger in?

He would only let Louis down. If he got close, if he let him in, Louis would grow to hate him, too. He owed it to Louis to stay away.

(You promised him tonight.)

He would have to tell Louis tonight, after the show, that whatever they were doing was over. Whatever Louis expected from him was not going to happen. Harry always did the same thing; he wrecked people. He broke them and he exhausted them and he made them gaunt and tired and ghostly. No one who loved him was ever better for it. Who was he kidding? Zayn used to love him; he used to say so all the time. 

(“I love you, man,” Zayn said after their first ever show, in a high school gym to a bored audience. “I love you. We’re going to do this fucking forever, man, you and me.”)

Liam never said it but he said it with his actions. 

(“I told my mom I’m not going to college,” he said with tears in his eyes. “She flipped her lid, Haz, and she kicked me out.”)

Niall said it, once or twice, but the way he smiled at Harry always made him believe it. 

(“I don’t know, Haz,” Niall said after a long night of drinking. “I don’t know about you, but I’m ready to do this forever.”) 

Harry had to gasp for air at the memories from a different life that attacked him from all sides. This could not be happening. He would not let this band go even if it killed him. He would rather die than quit now. Even two nights ago, he would have done anything to quit. The change baffled him, but there it was. He had changed his mind and it was painful and wrong that he may have been too late. 

(Who did he think he was? What gave him the right?)

He snapped out of his own wild head when Sophia clicked back across the empty room to the stage. Behind her was Zayn and behind him, walking as one, were Niall and Liam. Each one of them wore uniform looks of stormy rage on their twisted faces. It looked ugly and all wrong on them beside the memories of how happy they used to be, and Harry looked down at his knees as they neared him. 

“Don’t hide,” Zayn snapped. 

“I’m not!” Harry jerked his head up as quickly as he had bowed it, and he hopped off the stage and met his band as they gathered in a circle by the barricade. 

“How’s your hand?” Niall asked. Harry replied by showing him the cut that still bled freely down his fingertips. 

“Haz, Jesus,” Sophia frowned. “Here.” She pulled a wad of tissues from the pocket of her pants and passed them over. Harry balled them into his fist and squeezed and Sophia looked away, going pale, as the tissue turned red. 

“Anyway,” she said. She was all business, sharp edges, and she clapped her hands and took her place at the head of their little circle. “We’re having an emergency meeting right now. We are going to discuss our feelings like grownups and then we are going to have sound check and then we are going to continue this goddamn tour. Are we clear?”

No one said a word. 

“Good. Who wants to go first?”

No one said a word.

“Someone has to go first, guys. Be adults.” 

“I’m quitting,” Zayn finally said. “This is pointless because I’m fucking done.”

“Zayn Malik, you shut up right now!” Sophia said, setting a shining example of the maturity she called for so loudly. “No one is quitting this band unless you leave this room in a goddamn body bag!” 

The silence that followed her threat was so heavy Harry found it hard to breathe. 

“What the fuck is wrong with you, Soph?” a voice rang out, and Harry looked up to see Liam squaring his shoulders. 

“What’s wrong with this band?” she shot back, but Liam bristled, his cheeks going red. He was going to fight her; he really fucking was about to fight. Harry thought briefly of intervening on her behalf but the thought went away as fast as it had come. 

“I’m starting to think it’s you,” Liam snarled. He took a step closer to Sophia and she took two back, her ass hitting the steel barricade between the empty room and the stage. 

“Me?” she cried. “ME?! I’ve done nothing but try and help you! But you’re hopeless! There’s nothing I can do!”

“So you threaten us,” Liam stated. “You think that’s the way to go?”

“What other choice do I have?!”

“Have you ever heard of compassion, you goddamn evil bitch?”

“Woah,” Niall tried, arms out, but Liam shot him a look and he fell silent. No one could do anything but wither under the looks Liam could give. 

“Don’t call me that!” Sophia cried, on the edge of joining the rest of them in their communal breakdown. 

“Treat us like humans!” Liam bellowed. His steely eyes burned into her as he towered above her, voice echoing across the empty room. “The moment Harry began to break down, you forgot he was a person! Now that Zayn is hurting, you’re turning your back on him, too! And once they were my best friends, Sophia, and so were you, and I will not stand for it anymore!” 

Sophia froze. And so did everyone else. Liam exhaled sharply and crossed his arms and waited for anyone to speak. Harry had nothing to say. His stupid head whirred too fast to come up with anything. Liam had not admitted a hint of closeness or friendship to any of his bandmates in so long that Harry couldn’t recall the last time it happened. The fact that he pulled out all the stops now to remind them they were friends was a move so unexpected that all at once Niall did what Harry prayed he wouldn’t ever do in front of any of these people. He began to cry. He dug his hands into his eyes, maybe hoping no one would take notice, but when Liam clapped a hand on his back and held it there, a sharp sob escaped him. 

“Niall, no,” Zayn said, and the circle dissolved. Harry stood still and so did Sophia, the two of them locking eyes and then looking away. This could not be happening. What the hell was happening? Zayn comforted Niall, his hands on Niall’s shoulders. Liam hovered over the two of them, unsure what to do with his hands, and he settled for wrapping a strong arm around the both of them. 

“Niall, hey, don’t cry!” Liam pleaded. He looked as if he might start to cry himself. And Harry had to get the fuck out of here. He was going to lose his mind; the crying and the tears and the fighting was all too much. The roller coaster of being friends with the three boys who used to mean the world to him was going to be the death of Harry unless he got out of here right now. But the moment he took a step towards the exit, Zayn barked an order at him. 

“Don’t even think about hiding, Haz!”

“I don’t hide,” Harry replied. He kept his back to Zayn and to his band and his heart beat so wildly in his chest he could see his pulse flash across his vision. 

“You hide from everything, Haz.” The only thing that kept Harry from running was the softness of Zayn’s voice. He was not yelling anymore. He was quiet. He was calm. And Harry turned again to face him. 

“What do you want me to say?” he asked. He had no idea what they wanted from him. He had no idea what to do. 

“I don’t know what came over you last night, Haz,” Zayn began. “But it scared me. Because I’ve been trying to pull you back to me for so long and I thought I was…” He coughed sharply to hide the tremor in his voice Harry chose to ignore. With so much empty space between them it was easy. “I thought I was going to live to bury you, Haz. Do you have any idea how scared I am every day that I’m going to lose you? But last night you were my best friend again when you were on that stage. Why is that? What did that goddamn stranger give you that I couldn’t for so long? Why won’t you open up to me anymore?”

Four pairs of eyes searched relentlessly for Harry’s reply as he searched himself for anything to say. There was nothing, no answer he could give that wouldn’t sound insane. What was the point in telling them the truth- that he had no idea what was wrong with him and he had no idea what made him feel okay last night? Whatever it was, it was gone now, and he couldn’t find it no matter how hard he tried. 

“Answer me.”

“I don’t know,” Harry said. “I don’t know, okay?”

“That’s not an answer.” Harry strode across the room. He had to go. He had to find something in the bus (never mind the girls outside; he could ignore them; he was good at that) to calm himself down. “Where are you going?”

“The bus,” Harry replied. His throat constricted and he hardly got the words out; they hurt as they came and Zayn caught up to him near the door. 

“I got rid of it all, Haz,” Zayn said. He stood, arms crossed, before the door, and Harry froze.

“What?”

“All your shit in the bus. The bottles, the pills. The fucking needles- are you serious? Did you think you could hide those forever?” Everything Zayn spoke fell on deaf ears. The world closed in on Harry just as it always did and he felt how small he was under Zayn’s gaze. 

“No,” he breathed, because it was the only word he could muster. 

“Yes,” Zayn smirked. “It’s all gone. Go check if you don’t believe me. I told you, Haz, I’m scared. You scare all of us. So I got rid of it all.”

“No,” he pleaded. But the truth was written all over Zayn’s face. He did it. He really did it, and Harry could plead all he wanted but there was nothing he could do. 

“Yes,” Zayn insisted. “Are you still going to run?” Harry thought if he did not he was going to explode, so without any other option, he nodded. He was in New York fucking City; he could get anything he wanted here. Sure. He could find a corner and a shady park and replace everything he had and more within an hour. Sure thing. He had to. He was going to die without it; he could already feel the sickness and the fever of withdrawal (alcohol and heroin worked wonders on his body but the longer he stayed away the harder and harder it got) in his bones. Sure. He had to get past Zayn and past the girls and then he would run. Sure. 

“Fine,” Zayn said. He stepped aside. “Go, then. Be back before the show.”

“You’re staying, then?” Sophia called across the auditorium, and Zayn fixed her with such a look she shrank again back against the barricade. 

“I’m staying, then,” he said to Harry. “But not for her and certainly not for you. I owe Niall and Liam and that’s it. But I don’t want anything to do with you anymore. Do you hear me?”

(This happened way too fast; he had no time to grab it and now it was all over.)

“Yes.”

“Fine. Get out.” Harry obeyed. He shoved by Zayn and ignored Niall calling his name after him. Ignoring the people who used to love him was something he did best, after all. The moment he emerged from the darkness of the hall and out into the sunlight, the girls began to scream. It was fucking revolting but he passed off the bloody tissues in his hand to the girls in the front of the line and they screamed to hold in their hands the blood and tears he shed for this fucking band. He felt sick at the sight of them and without a word he turned away. He shoved his hands in his pockets and walked down the sidewalk; alone, alone, alone. He deserved nothing else but loneliness. 

All he ever did was break the people who used to love him. 

 

It was revolting but there he was, in some alley behind a restaurant with white powder in his palm. His legs splayed out before him and he pressed his nose to his hand. It was messy and he hated coke but it was the first thing he could find and the price was far too good to pass up. It made his head spin and he was probably going to pay for it by heaving over the toilet tonight, but for now it felt so fucking good that he felt like crying. He would show Zayn bright and alive. He would show Zayn that he could keep up. He could do this. And he could fix the band. All he needed was for them to not give up just yet. He thought of all the pills Zayn threw away (so much money, so many awful fucking things he did to get them) and of the pricey bottles of booze, and he cursed his former best friend for reducing him to this. He was a shadow. A regular goddamn ghost. 

It didn’t matter. He was fine. He was okay. His hands began to shake and he closed his eyes as he stood in a useless attempt to keep from blacking out. Spots danced across his vision and he fought to clear it. It was time to play a fucking rock show. Harry stumbled from the alley, twisting his head trying to remember from which way he had come. He headed down the street and not one person made eye contact with him. Good. Great. That was exactly what he craved- anonymity. He could never get it onstage and he could never get it in his band, but out here where his name meant nothing was just where he wanted to stay. 

He stumbled into someone and they shouted at him as he made a gruff, feeble attempt to apologize. The person walked away and so did Harry. He was going the right way; he knew he recognized this street as he walked the long walk back to his band. He could do this. He could. His heart raced in his chest to the beat of his thoughts

(I can, I can, I can, I can) 

and he couldn’t get away from them no matter how hard he tried. And then he heard it; the cheering of the crowd, and he knew his bandmates had finally joined the fans outside. They couldn’t get enough of The Troves, could they? They were never satisfied. They were never happy. There was always something more that Harry couldn’t give. 

When Harry was almost close enough to see the fake lines of laughter on Zayn’s face as he spoke to the girls in line, a hand grabbed for him and pulled him aside. Harry cried out as he was dragged sideways into an alley, and he stumbled into the hard brick wall with a gasp as the air in his body was ripped from him. 

“What the hell?” he intended to say, but his voice got lost as his assailant smiled at him. “Lou,” he breathed, not caring at all how breathless and relieved he sounded. 

“Harry,” Louis replied. Louis stood before Harry, his baby blues open wide. His eyelashes cast shadows on his cheeks, they were so long, and Harry blinked three times to try and clear the cobwebs from his vision. “You’re high.”

“Yeah,” Harry nodded. “I am, yeah.”

“Why?” 

“I had to get away.”

(Louis did not look beautiful in the fading sun; that was the coke talking. Beautiful was a word reserved for girls with pouty mouths and hungry eyes. It was not a word suited to fit boys with the back of their hair tucked into the lapel of a denim jacket.)

“From what?”

“Them.”

“The band?”

Harry nodded. “I’m sorry,” he said for no reason at all. Louis shook his head. His hands were soft when they landed on Harry’s shoulders. (He pinned him to the building but Harry didn’t mind.) 

“You have a show to play,” Louis said. He was not deadly serious but he was close and Harry almost wanted to laugh. 

“You have a show to attend. I hear the, uh, the front man is quite a looker.” 

“He looks like shit, actually.” Louis smiled and so did Harry and then Harry asked,

“Why did you yank me in here?”

“I guess I couldn’t wait until tonight to talk to you again.”

“Ah, I tend to have that effect on people,” Harry lied like it was close at all to the truth. 

“No, you don’t.”

“All right, all right.” Harry wanted to shake Louis off (he did) but he didn’t. 

“Just me,” Louis said. 

“Ah, I knew it.” Zayn was so close that Harry could hear him laugh, flirting with those awful girls for all he was worth, and it made him feel sick. And then his stomach flipped and he coughed dryly behind closed lips. “Hold on.” He pushed Louis back (he had wanted that, he really did, and it was easy and it didn’t hurt at all) and he bent at the waist, puking up what little shitty coffee he had managed to swallow back at the venue. Louis stood exactly where he was and when Harry straightened up, wiping at his mouth, he offered Louis a feeble smile that Louis returned.

“Are you all right?” Louis asked.

“Oh yeah,” Harry said. “Happens all the time.”

“Oh, Harry.” It was ridiculous but Louis reached for Harry and he fell into the touch, accepting the embrace that Louis pulled him into. He sank into Louis’s arms, sagging at the knees so he could press his face into the crook of Louis’s neck (he smelled like soap and Old Spice and cinnamon sugar, all warm), and Louis wrapped his arms tight around Harry’s middle. Louis’s chin landed on the top of Harry’s head as he arched up on tiptoes and Harry did not mind. Why didn’t he mind? What the hell was wrong with him?

(He had to run; he had to go before it was too late to go without breaking a heart or two.)

But he crumpled in Louis’s embrace and it was ridiculous but there it was. Louis was warm and his hands clasped at the small of Harry’s back and Harry didn’t have it in him to hug Louis in return and his hands hung uselessly at his sides but it didn’t matter. It didn’t fucking matter. The world narrowed to the smell of Louis and the feel of his warm body and the way Harry could feel his heart beating in his throat. 

“You’re okay,” Louis said as if he had any right at all to tell Harry such a thing. He had no idea; he was stranger. But there it was. Harry accepted it as truth. It was all he could do. What was wrong with him? 

(It was insane but there it was; he felt like maybe nothing was wrong as Louis clutched him in his arms.)

Louis was strong, much stronger than he looked, and his chin hurt the top of Harry’s head but he didn’t mind. He could hear Zayn’s booming laughter and it hurt but he didn’t know why. Finally (Harry wasn’t ready for the release but sure, he could pretend to be) Louis pulled away. His hands dropped and he took a step back and Harry fought with all his might to keep his lip from quivering with a million words he could say to fill the silence.

(Thank you, I’m sorry, I don’t know why you do this to me, who do you think you are?)

“Get out of here, tiger,” Louis said. (He grinned and it was a nice smile but he was not beautiful.) “You have a show to play.” 

Harry could hear Zayn’s laughter and it made him say something stupid and mean that could break his best friend’s heart. 

“Walk me to the venue.” It was an order. He wanted Louis to think he had no choice. And there it was. Louis obeyed. 

“Sure.” He led the way out of the alley and into the light and Harry blinked the fog from his eyes and let Louis lead him towards the tour bus and towards the crowd. When they were close enough to see the sun glinting off the sparkling hair band worn by the girl in the front of the line, Zayn looked up. And he went white. The false smile slipped off his face and Harry didn’t care. Zayn broke his heart and Harry was only returning the favor. Louis did not notice or did not care that Zayn was looking at him with revulsion and anger in his face. He smiled by Harry’s side and eased the heaviness of Zayn’s glare from Harry’s mind. 

It did not take long for the girls to take notice of Harry’s presence. They were angry with him. He understood that. But the rest of the line, the people who were not there last night to see Harry fall apart, cheered and gathered around him as he joined them. Everyone wanted a piece of him. Not one pair of eyes fell on Louis except for Harry’s. 

“Hey, guys, I’ll see you after the show,” Zayn said to the girls. “I gotta get inside now.” They whined but they let him go, and Harry felt ill at the satisfaction coursing through him at the knowledge of the real reason Zayn wanted to run. For whatever reason, Louis caused Zayn pain, and Harry was not about to spare him from it. He deserved it (he deserved so much better than Harry; he was so good). Harry had no desire himself to run. It didn’t make any sense but with Louis at his side Harry was at ease. He managed to smile at the crowd and he wondered if maybe it was the coke in his blood that made him relax enough to chat like he was twenty-one again. He was not stupid and he denied photographs and avoided signatures (coke made his hands shake and he wouldn’t be able to sign his name to save his life) but the crowd was happy to have him back. They were thrilled. For the moment they were sated and it filled Harry’s heart in a way he had long ago forgotten how to feel. 

Over the head of a girl close to tears due to Harry’s presence, he locked eyes with Niall. He raised his eyebrows, asking Harry with his eyes about the boy who stood at his side, and the best Harry could do was offer a non-committal shrug. Niall rolled his eyes and then he, too, said his goodbyes and vanished into the venue. 

Harry glanced at Louis and he said, “Hey, ready to go inside?” If Louis was shocked at the offer he did not let on. All he did was nod. 

“Can we come?!” the girls he spoke to shrieked. 

“Maybe next time,” Harry offered. He didn’t mean it at all but they bounced with joy and thanked him so profusely he almost felt a twinge of guilt. Almost. “Come on,” he said to Louis. And Louis obeyed. 

Inside the venue, Louis craned his neck and looked all around the empty room. 

“It looks so different when it’s empty,” Louis marveled. “Wait.” He stopped walking and Harry paused, not stopping to marvel over the fact that he obeyed Louis as well as Louis obeyed him. “This is where I stood last night.” He stood in the middle of the empty floor and closed his eyes, conjuring up memories of last night’s show. “It was incredible.”

Harry ignored the compliment like he did best. “Well tonight you’ll be standing there,” he said, and when he pointed to the empty spot backstage Louis’s jaw dropped. 

“No!” Louis breathed.

“If you want it, the spot is yours,” Harry countered. 

“No, I couldn’t…”

“I want you there.”

(He was stupid, so stupid, but there it was and it was out there and there was no taking it back.) 

“Well in that case,” Louis laughed, “I’d be honored.” He smiled and Harry smiled and then Zayn was racing towards them, fire in his face, and Niall was close behind. 

“Haz,” Niall said, calling his name as if to warn him, but the moment Zayn reached Louis, he stuck his hand out and said,

“Zayn.” Louis’s smile widened, awe lighting up his eyes, and he said, 

“I know who you are!” His eyes flickered to Niall and Niall tried to smile, he really did, and Louis shook Zayn’s hand and then offered his hand to Niall. Niall took it, his grip tight, and Zayn barked at Louis. 

“Well, then, who are you?” Harry wanted to hit him. He really did. Looking into Zayn’s twisted face he felt like he hardly knew him. 

“Louis,” he said. “Sorry. Louis Tomlinson. I can’t even tell you how amazing it is to meet you.”

(Louis Tomlinson. Louis fucking Tomlinson. For the strangest reason Harry wanted to feel the name and let it roll off his tongue but he bit it back and held his silence.)

Zayn looked him up and down before spitting a quiet, “Likewise.” He sized Louis up and Louis smiled at him and then Zayn asked, “So what are you, a fan? Is Haz giving you the grand tour?”

“Yeah,” Louis confirmed. “Something like that.” 

“What makes you different from all those people out there?” Zayn jerked his head towards the front door and Louis began to frown. Harry had to get him away from Zayn before someone said something cruel and irreversible. It was inevitable, after all, with three tempers running high. 

“I don’t know,” Louis smiled. Where Zayn was sharp and mean, Louis was all soft angles and softer words. Staring between the two it was impossible to remember how close Harry used to feel to the man who stared Louis down. 

“Why don’t I invite a girl inside?” Zayn asked. “A lot of them would kill to be in here right now. I didn’t know there was an open invitation.”

“Zayn…” Niall was good and he tried but Zayn shushed him and Niall went quiet. 

“Go on,” Harry said. “Go ahead, but I know the difference between those people and Lou.”

“What is it then?” Zayn challenged. 

“Those people want something from you. From us.”

“And he doesn’t?” 

“No.”

“You know that for a fact.”

“Yes.”

“You’re delusional. Everyone wants something from us. No matter how well they try to hide it.” He fixed Louis with a look of poison and Louis did not even flinch. A swell of pride inflated Harry’s chest as the two of them squared off, and finally Zayn backed off. 

“Whatever,” he said. “Go play with your boyfriend. I’m off to bring a girl in here like a normal fucking bloke.”

“Zayn!” Niall gasped, shock crossing his face, and Zayn paid him no mind. He strode from them towards the front door of the venue, and shocked silence fell over the three of them where they stood. Niall spoke first. 

“I’m so sorry,” he said to Louis. “I’m so, so sorry. He’s not himself this week; he’s a wreck, to tell you the truth. He’ll be okay, honestly, but just not right now. I don’t know what came over him.”

“Don’t apologize,” Louis said. “It’s all right.” It was not and Zayn disgusted Harry with his cruelty but there was nothing he could say to change it. There was nothing he could do. Defeated and shoulders sagging from the weight of Zayn’s revulsion, Harry tried his best to shake the weight of the world off his spine. 

“Do you want to see backstage?” Niall offered, and he was good and Harry was glad and Louis grinned and he gladly accepted. Niall led them to the back of the stage where his bass guitar hung, and Niall let Louis hold the shining, glittering thing and cradle it close to his chest. 

“It’s beautiful,” Louis breathed, and maybe it was a word reserved for people like him. Harry had no idea anymore. 

“Thanks,” Niall said, admiring the beauty of the instrument as he placed it back on its hook beside Zayn’s acoustic guitar. “She’s been my baby since I was sixteen. I’d let you hold Zayn’s guitars if he wasn’t so damn grumpy right now.”

“That’s all right,” Louis said. “I understand.”

“Are you going to hang around with us until the show?” Niall asked, and to that Louis looked at Harry with the question in his eyes. 

“If you guys don’t mind,” Harry said. He tried to sound nonchalant, as if he was not starting to believe his carefully crafted bubble of sanity could be popped if Louis were to wander away, and Louis grinned. 

“I don’t mind,” Niall said. “But Zayn might pitch a fit.”

“Fuck him,” Harry said immediately, and Niall barked a laugh. 

“That’s my advice,” he agreed. “Until he calms down, anyway. Fuck him. Fuck all of this. I’m trying just to shake it all off, Haz, because it’s temporary.”

“Is it?”

“We’ve always fought,” Niall shrugged. “Things were never perfect. But we always work it out in the end, don’t we?”

(Maybe Harry had been looking at the past through a haze of happy memories and maybe Niall was right, but the thought was baffling and Harry had no idea how to react.)

“I guess so,” Harry agreed. 

Niall led Louis and Harry all around the venue, showing Louis how to work the lights (that was his job a long time ago, long before all of this, and that was how he got into the music business in the first place. Harry always wondered if he would lose Niall to the lights; the way Niall glowed when he cast a white glow over the stage was mesmerizing) and how to draw the curtains. Louis could not wipe the grin off his face. Niall was good and Niall was animated, and Liam joined them and sat down at his drums. 

He did not ask to be introduced to Louis but he treated him well, chatting while he twirled his drumsticks. Maybe it was something in the water or maybe it was the light behind Louis’s eyes, but not one person in the room could keep from smiling as long as Louis was. 

After a long while, Zayn came back. Just as he promised he had a girl in tow, his hand tight around hers. Harry was not surprised to see he had chosen the girl with the rainbow of hairbands to bring inside; she was small, dwarfed by Zayn, and she gabbed about nothing as he led her to the stage. 

“I’m going to show Perrie around,” Zayn sound, voice thick. “And then sound check.”

“Is that an order?” Liam asked, and Zayn nodded. 

“Yes.” Zayn and the girl climbed up onstage and disappeared behind it, leaving everyone else silent in their wake. 

“He’s such a dick when he’s jealous,” Liam said. He fiddled with his drums and he missed the questioning look Harry sent his way. He had heard what Zayn had to say and he thought he understood. But why was Zayn acting like a child? It couldn’t really be jealousy, could it? That did not make any fucking sense. Zayn wasn’t like that. Zayn let everything bounce off him. But Louis’s presence was something he just couldn’t take. Harry watched the spot where Zayn disappeared and waited for someone, anyone else to speak. 

When nobody did, Harry cleared his throat. His nose itched all the way to his throat from the shitty coke he had snorted and it made the back of his tongue itch to speak. 

“Well,” he said. “Are you guys ready for a little practice?” That was all the prompting Niall and Liam needed. Niall dashed backstage and came back with his bass slung over his shoulder. Liam stopped flipping his drumsticks and he waited for Harry to take his place center stage. With Louis at his side it was easy. It was simple. It was just as it should have always been. And as Harry turned his microphone on and it wheezed into life, he opened his mouth and he began to sing.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tend to procrastinate so if you hate waiting, please harass me on my tumblr @ ourl0veisgod!

“It’s not that I’m alone that scares me,” Harry moaned to a frantic crowd. “It’s not that I’m alone that weakens me.” 

Just like always the show had to go on.

Harry could feel Louis’s eyes all over him and his attention was the only thing Harry wanted. But there was a sea of people before him and a sea of shining faces, and the closer Harry stood to them the louder they began to cheer. He was invincible because Louis stood behind him with a smile dancing on his lips. Harry neared the edge of the stage and then he made a move he never thought he’d make again. Feeling charismatic and daring, he climbed up on the amp on the edge of the stage and he stood on top, bending at the waist 

(not to throw up like he did before; that was too long ago to matter now)

to get closer to the screaming faces and the searching hands. With one hand clasped tight around his microphone he used the other to reach right back for them. He sang right to them and he let them wrap their hands up with his and he leaned close enough to see the sweat on their faces. Up close they did not frighten him. Up close he was not afraid. He was not a monster but he felt like one, stomach twisting with the memory of Zayn saving his ass on more than one night. And here he was, like it never fucking happened, and he knew he owed Zayn so much more than he ever gave.

But for now there was nothing he could do but sing. He pulled away from the crowd and he made his way back to center stage, sweat dripping from his hair as he danced around like an idiot (like he used to do every show, head banging this way and that as he wrestled with his wild limbs). It was good. It was great. And Niall stuck his tongue out and pretended to be sick when Harry’s sweat hit his skin. They were friends. Everything was all right. Why had Harry let things get so bad when it was so easy to stand onstage and be okay? 

Niall announced song after song and Harry let him, glad for the brief moments he got to gulp water and ease the burning in his throat (no more garbage coke, no more coke at all). 

“This is my personal favorite song,” Niall crowed. “Written by the genius Harry and Zayn in the summer of 2007. We were kids and you guys probably weren’t even born!” The crowd roared in protest at the joke and Niall laughed, barking to the lights on the ceiling. “This song is called Upside to Coming Down- sing along if you know the fucking words!” Of course they did. They loved this song. Harry had sung this song so many times he could do it in his sleep. It was familiar as Zayn’s old guitar and nearly as old as the lines around his eyes. 

Before he began to sing, Harry wound the cord to his microphone around his arm and chanced a glance backstage. Louis was there. Harry had half expected him to be gone, a ghost, but there he was and here Harry was and Louis was not going anywhere. He held his knuckles between his teeth, grinning so wide it looked like he could split open, and Harry looked so fast he almost missed the wink Louis shot his way. Harry could do this. With Louis there he could do anything. 

(What was wrong with him?)

Liam began to drum the beat and Harry ignored the shot of pain in his hand from that morning’s bloody injury. Jeff had patched him up with a bandage wrapped around his palm but still it stung. But still, it was easy to ignore. 

“I’m here,” Harry moaned. So many of the songs he wrote began that way, with a moan. They began in soft moans and whimpers and ended in earthquakes (a perfect metaphor for the band, but the thought made Harry ache deep down) and that was just the way he and the crowd liked it best. “I’m here,” he assured the crowd yet again. He heard the pain in his voice (Rolling Stone gave painfully honest reviews but they never failed to mention the “haunting realness” of the agony Harry injected into his songs) and he wondered how it sounded to the clamoring crowd. Maybe they loved him because they identified with pain. Maybe they were as crazy as he was.

It didn’t matter. He was here and so were they and as long as Harry was alive he was going to sing this goddamn song for all he was worth. 

“Don’t tell me that I’m bad news,” Harry sang. The audience sang along. They always did. And Harry was not afraid of them anymore. “Because I already know. Don’t tell me I don’t deserve you, because I ache from every blow.” 

The words meant next to nothing when Harry wrote them. The closeness each word had now to the life he led was almost enough to scare him. 

(Louis was here and he did not have to be scared because tonight would end like every night and then he would be okay.)

The song swung to an end. Harry leapt off the amp he had clambered back onto and the crowd went mad. He loved it. He loved it. How had he forgotten how much he loved it? Niall called the name of the next song and Harry was singing again before he had time to as much as think. That was exactly how he liked it. That was exactly how he felt safe. Thinking was no longer for him and he knew it. That was all right. That was okay. 

Everything was okay.

The last song ended and Harry raised his arms to the ceiling, taking a bow. The lights went out. Zayn was gone before Harry could even take a breath and Liam was quick to follow. Niall was slow, dragging his bass off his lanky frame and clapping Harry on the back. His smile was genuine as he pulled his earpiece out and said, “You’re amazing, Haz. Welcome back.” Niall handed his bass to the only girl crazy enough to agree to roadie for The Troves, a small girl with wild chestnut hair and a name Harry couldn’t remember. Harry cradled his earpiece in his palm and sought out Jeff; he was the only person Harry trusted not to lose it. It was anything but precious to him but Jeff held it like a revered object and he always returned it, pristine, to Harry the very next night. 

“Party at McDonald’s, Eleanor!” Niall cried to the tiny brunette roadie, and she laughed and agreed by giving him a rough high five. Harry wanted to rejoice with Niall and Liam and Zayn for the best show they had played in far too long, but there he was. Louis. Louis, Louis, Louis, a perfect goddamn stranger. And Harry lost his train of thought. Louis stood there, face and arms open wide, and Harry didn’t think before he launched himself into Louis’s arms. Not pausing to think was what he fucking did best, and despite the couple of inches Harry had on Louis, Louis picked him off the ground and spun with him. 

“Oh, Harry, you were amazing!” Louis put him down and he smiled and he smiled and when he released him, Harry was quick to close the distance between them again. He slung one arm across Louis’s slim frame, dragging him to his side, and Louis laughed even as their heads painfully collided. Harry lost sight of his bandmates but he didn’t mind. That was okay. Louis was here and he was happy and so was Harry. Why had he put away the memories of the joy this band could bring to him?

(What was wrong with him?)

“Ready to get out of here?” Louis asked. “You owe me dinner.”

“Ah,” Harry replied teasing Louis with an elbow to his ribs. “You weren’t thinking McDonald’s with the guys?”

“Hey, now, I’m not a cheap date like you!” he shot back. He dropped his head onto Harry’s shoulder and rested there and Harry was crazy and he didn’t mind at all. 

“All right, all right,” Harry conceded. “Let’s get out of here.” Out in the night the celebratory air broadened, sweeping across the night sky. Louis linked his arm through Harry’s and Harry was wild with joy and he didn’t mind. What was wrong with him? Waiting fans screamed as Harry passed them by and he waved at them with his free hand. 

“We love you, Harry!” a girl shrieked at the top of her lungs, and after a moment they all screamed the same thing. 

“I love you, too!” he cried in reply, raising his free arm in exaltation, and they loved him for it. They fucking ate it up and so did Louis, laughing like a hyena on Harry’s arm. 

“Harry!” Louis laughed. 

“What?”

“You’re a madman.”

“Don’t I know it.” 

A few blocks passed by in silence and Louis broke it by asking where they were heading. 

“I haven’t decided yet,” Harry replied. “Do you know any nice bars?”

“I know plenty of nice bars,” Louis replied. “But I expect nothing less than the swankiest place in town. I want candles and champagne, Harry Styles!” 

“Ah,” Harry said. “All right. I can do that. But I’m going to need you to lead the way.” Far away from the tour bus and night two of three in the same old venue, the joy inside Harry was only just beginning to fade. He was lucky and he knew it to not be alone as the high of his performance wore off. He was lucky and he knew it in more ways than one. He wanted to disentangle his arm from Louis’s but he was a heartbreaker and he didn’t want to add Louis to the ever lengthening list of people he left behind in his wake. He could do this. This was all right. Because there was no reason for it but something about spending the night with Louis brought light he had never felt before to his bones. 

Louis laughed but he obeyed and he clung to Harry and dragged him along past street corner after street corner and light after light. 

“Where are we going?” Harry asked, but Louis hushed him and Harry obeyed. 

What was wrong with him?

“We’re really close,” Louis said. “Don’t worry. You’ll be back in time to get some sleep before tomorrow night’s show.”

“Great,” Harry said with a roll of his eyes. His breath escaped from him a plume like smoke, the night air stinging at his exposed skin, and it was crazy but not quite wrong and he clung tighter to Louis as they walked in tandem. Louis’s canvas sneakers pounded the pavement and so did Harry’s and each step echoed down the empty street. 

“Harry,” Louis said as if he liked the taste of Harry’s name.

“What?”

“Can I tell you a little about myself without freaking you out?”

“Why would your life story freak me out?”

“Well,” Louis sighed, “because in a lot of places it has a lot to do with you.”

“Ah.” There it was. Louis was here and he was a safe place but first and foremost he was a fan. He was a fan and all of them wanted something from Harry that he could not give them. How could he have been so stupid as to forget?

“Maybe the story is for another night,” Louis amended at the deafening sound of Harry’s silence. 

“Tomorrow?” Harry asked without a moment of hesitation. Every moment with Louis felt like a moment of clarity and he felt it clear the fog from his bones when Louis broke into a laugh. 

“Yes,” Louis said. “Tomorrow.” With the promise of (one more, only one more) another night the two of them fell silent. As the sweat began to dry on Harry’s skin he began to shiver in the cold. His arms were bare and goose bumps painted his skin. 

“I know it’s cold,” Louis said. “But we’re almost there.”

“You know,” Harry said. “We’re not really dressed for a night on the town.”

“I know that,” Louis said. “But I lied to you. I have something much better to show you than some stuffy restaurant. Are you in?”

Harry did not think twice when he nodded and said, “Yes.”

“Great.” One by one, skyscrapers passed them by, and the farther they walked from the tour bus the smaller the buildings became. Brick by brick and alley by alley, Louis led the way. “I’m going to show you where I live, Haz,” Louis said. “Not my apartment. The roof.”

(Only Harry’s friends called him that, some ridiculous nickname they picked up in London, and Harry ignored it as ‘Haz’ fell from Louis’s lips.)

“The roof?” he asked. 

“Yeah. The view is amazing. You’re not scared of heights, are you?”

“Not at all.”

(I’m not afraid of anything as long as you’ll be there.)

“Great.” All at once Louis released Harry’s arm and dashed up the steps of a building maybe ten stories high in dark red brick. Harry followed close behind as Louis punched in the code to open the front door. It clicked open and Louis held the door with one arm and beckoned to Harry with the other. “Go on,” he said. Harry obeyed. Inside it was blessedly warm and Harry flexed the iciness from his fingers, pressing them to his lips to bring warmth back to his hands. He danced on the spot for a moment and he watched Louis as Louis watched him. 

“Ready?” Louis asked. 

(I’m ready; I’m ready; I’d try anything for you.)

“Yes.” The lobby of the building was dead silent, the quiet reminding Harry of the strange and nocturnal life he led far from the rest of the world. Maybe the day belonged to the rest of the world, but the night belonged to him and to Louis. Louis led the way to an elevator, the doors a tarnished gold, and the car made a racket as it descended down to the ground floor. Harry cringed as it crashed along with a soft ping to the lobby and the doors hissed open. 

“After you,” Louis ordered, and Harry obliged. As they rose Harry tried his hardest to look at anything but Louis. The linoleum on the elevator floor was dirty and covered in a thousand shoe imprints in dust and grime. Louis’s sneakers looked so damn small beside Harry’s; he had never thought of himself as anything but small but next to him he was proven wrong. His shoelaces dangled, ragged and frayed, and the black canvas was ripped and spilling out threads at the sides. And Louis was good and he did not mind the silence. 

Without his permission Harry’s eyes roved over the ring on Louis’s finger and then the frayed hem of the denim jacket falling to his hips. 

(What was wrong with him?)

Louis was small and the elevator was smaller and Harry tried to tell himself he was not about to choke. He was good and he was fine and he could do this. Maybe he was shit at keeping people close to him and maybe he was the person Louis’s parents always taught him to stay away from, but he tried to tell himself that it didn’t matter. Louis had chosen him and he had chosen to spend his night by Harry’s side and Harry was not about to let him change his mind. He could do this. He could be okay. 

Louis’s hands were so damn small and his fingernails ragged, and Harry knew the feeling of keeping his hands in his mouth to hide himself from the world. It was stupid and it made no sense but a lot of things made less sense than standing in a rickety elevator with a boy who couldn’t stop smiling. 

The elevator doors opened and spilled them out into a deserted hallway. 

“We’re not really supposed to be on the roof,” Louis said, voice hushed as he stood close enough to whisper. “Follow me.” Harry did. He always did. Louis led the way down the dimly lit hallway and at the very end, a metal ladder hung attached to the stone wall. Harry craned his neck to look up to the ceiling but the top of the ladder was shrouded in shadow and he couldn’t see all the way up. 

“Don’t think,” Louis ordered. “Just follow me.” Up close he was warm, so warm, and Harry could almost feel the heat radiating off his skin. His face was pale in the buzzing lights on the walls and he looked tired, bags under his bright blue eyes, but maybe he was the closest thing in Harry’s life to something beautiful and to something great. He didn’t want to think about it. He was not too great at remembering not to dwell but there it was. He overthought everything. He couldn’t get out of his own damn head and it was going to be the death of him if he let it. 

“Are you all right?” Louis asked. 

Harry’s voice was rough when he replied. “Yes.” 

“Great.” Louis turned away and he took hold of the ladder in both hands. He climbed fast and after a moment his face vanished from Harry’s view. There was the sound of metal on metal from somewhere up above his head and then a rush of icy air hit Harry’s face. “Got it!” Louis shouted in a whisper down the ladder. “Get up here.”

Harry was not afraid of heights but he sure was afraid. (Not of Louis, that would be insane, but something nagged at him and he ignored it because ignoring things was what he did best.) He took hold of the ladder, the metal cold enough to hurt his hands, and his sneakers slipped and slid with every careless step. 

“Are you coming?” Louis teased, and then Harry reached the top of the ladder and rose out of the building and into the night. All the air in his body rushed out as he sighed, the sight of the city unfolding before him taking his breath away. He couldn’t crane his neck fast enough. He took in as much as he could and he felt his mouth fall open as he stared.

He knew the city was beautiful but he had no idea what he was missing. It was dazzling to see, dizzying and gleaming, and Harry almost missed it when Louis’s hand darted out to help him climb out onto the roof. Without a second thought Harry took the hand offered to him (where Harry was cold, Louis was warm, and his fingers were hot as they wrapped around Harry’s) and Louis helped him take the final step off the ladder and into the night sky. New York City all but unfolded beneath them and Harry found it hard to breathe at the size of the world all around him. Lights danced all around him, windows and spotlights and headlights and streetlamps, and his neck creaked as he tipped his head back to stare like a child into the stars. 

It wasn’t until Louis laughed at the gaping of Harry’s lips did he realize Louis still held Harry’s held tight in his own. It was stupid and maybe it was mean but so was Harry and Louis did not flinch when Harry pulled away.

(He was never, ever good at friends, after all.)

“Thank you,” Harry breathed.

“For what?”

“The view.” (For everything; for saving me.)

“I thought you might like it.” 

“It’s amazing.” (You’re amazing.)

“I know. I do a lot of thinking up here. No one else dares to come up here because the landlord threatened to evict anyone who played up here. He’s convinced someone will tumble off or jump off and leave him to deal with the aftermath.”

Harry made his way to the edge of the building and peered down at the street so far below. The cars looked like toys, honking and gleaming and flying through the dark, and Harry asked, “Have you ever thought about it?”

Louis did not have to ask to know exactly what Harry meant. “Me? I don’t know. Hasn’t everyone?”

“Yes,” Harry replied. Louis joined him by the very edge of the roof and together they peered at the street beneath them. Louis’s shoulder hit Harry’s and this time Harry did not pull away. Harry tried to avoid thoughts of the gravity of the unsaid words that hung between them. It was too much. Everything was all too much. 

Before he could think, Harry stepped up onto the ledge separating him from the edge. 

“Harry!” Louis cried, but he did not touch him or pull for him as Harry straightened his back, throwing his arms out to the sides to keep his balance. “Harry.” He did not trail off and he did not make Harry’s name a demand, but there it was. He said Harry’s name again and he stared up at him, stars glistening in his impossibly wide eyes. 

Wind he hadn’t felt on the street below whipped Harry’s T-shirt and held it tight to his skin. His hair fell over his eyes and he brushed it back, teetering so severely that Louis took a step forward, but he steadied himself. He always fucking steadied himself, didn’t he? He was all right. This was okay. He was not going to fall because Louis was not going to let him. Again he tipped his head back but this time he let his tired eyes slip closed. Up here it didn’t matter. No one screamed his name and no one begged for his eyes or his heart or his attention. Louis did not demand it and Louis did not say a word. But Harry could feel Louis’s eyes all over him. 

“It’s an amazing feeling,” Louis finally said. “I know it is. I used to do it all the time. You’re king of the world up there, aren’t you?”

Harry nodded. He was. He was! He could do anything because he was here and he was alive and the high from bad coke and a good show faded but still he was alive. He owned the goddamn world and nothing could take that from him. Here he was okay. Here he could live. 

His sneaker slipped and he fumbled for control, teetering wildly with his arms outstretched, and when he fell back towards the roof Louis caught him in his arms.

“Woah there, tiger,” Louis said, and Harry played dead in his arms and Louis stumbled in his attempt not to drop him. He tripped over his own sneakers and he fell, dragging Harry down with him. Together they hit the roof in a heap, Harry’s legs tangling with Louis’s, and Louis began to laugh so loud it seemed to echo all around.

“Shh!” Harry laughed. “Don’t get evicted!” But Louis took in a sharp breath and laughed even harder, eyes squeezing shut. “Lou!” Harry disentangled his limbs from the laughing mess that was Louis and without thinking he pressed his uninjured hand to Louis’s lips. “Shh,” he demanded, and slowly Louis began to quiet. He opened his eyes and he stared at Harry and Harry stared at him and finally Harry dropped his hand. 

“All right,” Louis said like he could burst into laughter again at any moment. “Let’s get you home.”

 

Night three of three in New York City was going to be the best night The Troves had ever had. Harry was going to make sure of it. They were going to go out with a fucking bang and they were going to promise to return and the crowd was going to go mad. Jeff and Eleanor and the third and only roadie whose name Harry had yet to pull back out of his head readied the stage, practiced hands fast and steady. 

And Harry watched Louis as he watched chaos from the side of the stage. Louis had appeared out of nowhere as Harry watched the roadies and he had yet to come close to Harry. He had an idea that if Louis grinned any wider he would begin to laugh. Louis stood with one hip out and his knuckles in his mouth and Harry watched him from the opposite side of the stage. Jeff and the other roadies bumped into him with amps and wires and they tripped over his sneakers but if they were bothered by it, they didn’t tell him so. They let him stand in their way because in the way was where he wanted to be and if he was happy where he stood, so were they. 

Zayn and the rest of the band stood outside in the cold, bullshitting yet again with the same girls in the front of the line. Zayn had had his arm slung over a girl’s shoulders the last time Harry peeked out the window, the girl who every night wore a different hairband placed carefully in her hair- Perrie. Harry thought she had a sharp face and a sharp tongue but he held his own. What right did he have to nag Zayn, of all people, about his choice of company? No, he could leave well enough alone. Zayn was angry and he deserved a reprieve, Harry supposed. Late last night, as Harry said goodbye to Louis on the pavement outside the tour bus, he stumbled to his bunk to hear the unmistakable sounds of skin on skin coming from Zayn’s, but who was he to beg them to stop so he could sleep? It was none of his concern and he pressed his pillow hard over his head to block out all that he could. 

“’Scuse me, Haz,” the dark haired roadie said from behind him. He carried a long black cord wrapped around his shoulder and a roll of duct tape in one hand, a stack of set lists in the other. 

“Sorry,” Harry said. The roadie smiled as he passed and he dropped his load in the center of the stage. Harry called to him as he crouched and yanked a piece off the roll of tape, “Hey, I’m sorry. What’s your name?”

The roadie shook his head, either angry or baffled at Harry’s piss poor memory, but as his shock of deep brown hair moved away from his face Harry caught sight of a smile. “Nick,” the roadie said. “I know it’s a little hard to remember.”

“Shut up,” Harry said, and the roadie looked up and saw he wore a smile, too. He remembered now; Nick Grimshaw. He was stupid and he was going to forget again but for the moment he held onto the name as he held onto eye contact with the smiling man. “Want help with that?”

“Sure, I guess so.” Harry knew without looking that Louis watched every step he took. He met the roadie, Nick, in the center of the stage, and at his side he helped sort out the set lists. There was one for each member of the band and Nick wrote in red marker each band member’s name on the sheets. On Zayn’s list he jotted in between songs at what time Zayn would have to dash offstage and grab his acoustic guitar off its hook. Harry knew Zayn had it memorized, anyway. The Troves had only one song that required the old, beat up wooden guitar. It was a song Harry wrote in the laundry room of his first ever apartment; the first time he ever lived alone. The song, called Place Me Here, haunted Harry from the moment he wrote down the first lyric in his bent old notepad. It was not a song that held meaning for him anymore, like a lot of the songs he wrote as a kid, but every time he played it, there he was. He remembered the boy who sat, curled in on himself like a cat with his tongue between his teeth, and jotted down the song that would always make the front row cry. 

The moment Zayn pulled out that guitar, Harry always felt like doing the same. He never did because he was brave and nothing would ever make him fall apart onstage again. The song meant the world to him a long time ago (so did Zayn) and it meant the world to a lot of people now. Sitting onstage with the title of the song beneath his thumb, Harry wondered how much of Louis’s story contained the words to his songs. 

When he looked up he got no closer to the answer. Louis was no longer looking at him; he had closed his eyes. Harry had no idea what he was remembering but there was pain on Louis’s face. It was as clear as day (as clear as his eyes) and Harry had no idea if he could ease it away. So instead he stood and he placed Liam’s set list on the floor by his drum set and Niall’s by the spot of tape telling Niall where to stand. Nick stuck Zayn’s down with the toe of his boot and then he pressed Harry’s down with one thumb.

“Thanks,” Nick said, and then Harry was alone onstage. But he locked eyes with Louis and Louis grinned and moved to join him in the center of the stage. Today Louis wore the same grin and the same beat up high top sneakers as always but for the first time Harry saw him without his faded denim jacket. He wore a Rolling Stones baseball shirt and the same tight blue jeans, and as Louis neared him Harry couldn’t help but take in the tattooed skin of his forearms. Harry had a few (more than a few) stupid and old tattoos himself but to see them painting Louis’s skin surprised him. He must have had shock written on his face because Louis followed his gaze and impossibly, he smiled wider.

“Do you have time for a few stories?” he asked, and Harry said,

“Always.”

 

The sky outside the loft above the venue had darkened long ago and Harry knew the band would need him soon but Louis had promised him stories and Harry was not going down there without hearing each and every one. He sat by Louis’s side and held one arm in both his hands, twisting it to get a glimpse of every spot of ink. 

“This one,” Louis said, pointing to a large black bird on the side of his forearm, “was on impulse. I don’t have some affinity for birds or anything; I don’t know.” He shrugged as if the beautiful black bird on his skin was anything less than stunning. “This one,” he pointed to a tiny black tattoo on the inside of his arm and Harry had to pull Louis’s arm closer to his eyes to see the miniscule splash of blank ink, “is stupid. It’s, well, you see what it is,” he laughed as Harry brushed his thumb over the black ink. Harry marveled at the tiny paper airplane and he smiled as Louis did, the heat of his skin warming Harry to the core. 

“Wow,” Harry breathed, uncaring of the fact that he sounded like a child. He cradled Louis’s arm in both hands and he waited for him to point out another. It was impossible, the amount of stories on his skin, and Harry wanted to hear them all. And then he twisted his arm and saw something he knew. “Ah.” He exhaled, the words written in script beneath Louis’s bird so familiar they caused a sting deep in his chest.  
“And,” Louis said, “you know that one.”

He did. He did. Because it was his own words that lined the bird like a banner. They were old words but he would never forget them and his grip loosened on Louis’s arm as he reeled. (Louis was a fan; what was Harry thinking?) 

“I’m sorry,” Louis said. He did not look at Harry. “Does that bother you?”

“No,” Harry said because there was nothing else he could say. (He was stupid, he was stupid, he was so, so stupid.)

“Can I tell you one thing, Harry?” Louis asked. 

“Yes.” 

“There were a few moments in my life when I thought that maybe I didn’t want to keep going anymore. It was a long time ago but it happened and I just want you to know.”

“Okay,” Harry said because there was nothing else he could say. He released Louis and Louis curled in on himself at Harry’s side in the cold, dim loft. 

“My alarm clock that woke me up for school was set to play the radio every morning,” Louis said. “And one morning, there you were.” 

“Ah,” Harry breathed because there was nothing else he could say. 

“It was Hope to See You that I heard the morning and that was the moment I realized something.” He looked at Harry and Harry looked away, his heart doing crazy things in his chest he didn’t want to think about. 

“What?” Harry asked. 

“I realized that I wanted to be alive. I heard you sing and I chose life. I’m sorry if that scares you and I’m sorry if that makes you wonder all about me but I just wanted you to know. I’m not going to sit here and tell you that you saved my life, Harry, but you came damn close.”

The silence that followed Louis’s words hung like a rope between them. It stretched as Harry pulled it and finally it broke. 

“I’m sorry,” Harry said because there was nothing else he could say. 

“For what?”

“I’m sorry that you placed your faith in me.”

“What?” Louis looked at Harry and Harry looked away. “What do you mean?”

“I’m…” Harry said. “I’m broken. I’m not…I’m not good. I don’t know.” (The world was not closing in on him; he was okay and he was all right.) 

“No, don’t pull away from me,” Louis said. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have told you.” Was that agony in his voice? Was that pain at the thought of losing Harry even for a moment? What had Harry done to deserve the key to Louis’s fucking heart? What was he going to do?

He was not going to break Louis. He was not. He refused. 

This could not be happening. He closed his eyes but it only made the panic worse; all he saw was the words he had written when he was barely eighteen years old. And those words had meant the world to Louis when he thought he was alone. (How was that a bad thing?) And it was the worst thing Harry could have ever imagined. Louis was stupid and he had put his trust in Harry and Harry was no good and he was going to break or he was going to break Louis and neither one of them should be up here pretending they were doing the right thing by spilling out their hearts.

(“And I swear to God I hope to see you,” he had written all alone. “Because maybe then I’d have a home.”)

And those were the words painted garish on Louis’s soft skin. What was Harry thinking? Not thinking was what Harry did best and what he did next was a shining example. He dropped his heavy head onto Louis’s shoulder and there he stopped to rest. Momentarily Louis stiffened but he relaxed into Harry and without having to see Harry knew he was smiling. 

“You’re crazy,” he told Louis, and Louis did not ask him why. 

 

Ten minutes to show time and Zayn sauntered up the steps leading to backstage. The hairband girl was on his arm. He smirked as Harry winced with the whirlwind of the smell of her hair. 

“I’ll see you after the show, Pez,” Zayn said to the tiny girl, and she smiled and looked up at him with a look of reverence that made Harry’s stomach do somersaults. She was smitten and Zayn was gross and Harry had no idea what to do.

(How was the way Louis looked at Harry any different?) 

“Here you go, man,” Jeff said in Harry’s ear, and he shoved his earpiece in and Harry winced as he always did and adjusted it with shaky fingers. “You okay?” 

“I’m okay.” Eleanor and Nick did a last minute mic check, bouncing around the stage like pinballs as they moved effortlessly around each other, perfectly in sync. 

“I’m telling you, I can’t wait to get out of this city,” Jeff said with a slap on Harry’s shoulder, and there it was. That was right and this was the end. They were leaving in the morning for Hartford and Boston and Providence after that, and Harry had nothing to say to Jeff and he pretended he did not hear him speak. 

Leaving the city was not a future Harry wanted to think about. 

(What was wrong with him?) 

He did not want to look at Louis in the corner of backstage and think about what he was going to tell him at the end of the night. 

(What was he going to say? What was he going to do?) 

Nick and Eleanor dashed off the stage and they gave Harry two twin thumbs up; they had finished readying the stage. Harry did not stray too close to the heavy curtains at the side of the stage; the audience murmured and chatted and he didn’t want them to see him before he was ready. For the hundredth time he ran his hands through his hair in an attempt to get it away from his face. He needed a fucking haircut and he needed to stop thinking because he could do this. It would be easy. Because Louis was there. He watched Harry mess with his wild curls and he smiled and smiled and gently reminded Harry to breathe.

“You’re all right,” he said. One glance at Louis’s ink and he was not so sure. 

(And I swear to God I hope to see you because maybe then I’d have a home.) 

Maybe Louis hoped to build a home at Harry’s side.

(What was wrong with him?!)

Harry did a lot of wild and stupid things but here he was and so was Louis and he said the worst thing he had ever said. He looked hard into Louis’s open eyes and he barked an order that made those eyes go wide.

“Come with me,” he said. “On the tour. Come with me.” He was crazy and he was stupid but Louis understood. His smile faltered but only for a moment and he shook his head so slowly Harry almost didn’t see it. 

“You’re crazy,” he told Harry, and wasn’t that the truth.

“I mean it. Come with me.” Louis would obey. He always obeyed. 

“Harry, what…?” His brow furrowed and Harry wanted to press away the worry lines with his thumbs and instead he took Louis’s shoulders in his hands and pressed his fingers in hard. 

“Louis, come with me. Come with me.”

“Harry!” Niall cried as he ran by, bass in hand and blond hair wild. “We’re up!” Who else would be up? Whose turn could it be? Maybe other acts had opening bands but The Troves were a solo show. Harry was volatile and the band was broken and Sophia made damn sure to keep it as close to her chest as she could so no one would ever know. The Troves were always up. The Head Space tour dragged along no openers and that was exactly how Harry liked it. The anticipation of waiting through openers used to kill him, causing his fingernail beds to bleed as he gnawed through his own skin. It wasn’t long into the band’s career that they became the one and only. 

That was how Harry did it best. 

Harry only turned his head to Niall for a moment before turning back to Louis. He looked scared. He looked green. But when Harry ran out of time and said once more, “Come with me,” finally he nodded. 

“Okay.” Harry released him and he turned away and he took his place on center stage in seven short steps. The crowd went mad. They always did. And Harry raised his arms to the ceiling and cried out, 

“Good evening, New York City!” 

Screams. Whistles. And shouts.

“If you haven’t already heard, we’re The motherfucking Troves!”

Bang. The crowd went off like a firework. Harry counted Liam in and he began to play and there it was. There they were. And goddamn, did it feel good to be back.

 

The only thing Harry wanted after the show was to take Louis and drag him far away from here, where he could pick him apart and listen to every story he had to offer. But Sophia was still on her mean streak and she grabbed him by the elbow and she hissed in his ear,

“Band meeting. In the bus. Now.”

“Why?” Harry asked. “What the fuck- get off me!” He ripped his arm from Sophia’s grip and glared at her, intent on walking away the first chance he got. 

“Let’s just say I heard a rumor,” she hissed. “One that needs to be addressed. Now.” Harry had a sick feeling he knew exactly what the stick up her ass was but he pretended to have no clue. It was the only defense he had against her. 

“What is it?” he asked.

“You’ll find out on the goddamn bus. The rest of the band is already there. They’re waiting on you, Haz.”

“I’m pretty sure they’re just waiting on you. Tell me what the fucking problem is or I’m not following you anywhere.”

“You want to know what my problem really is?” she asked. She stared up at Harry with the bright pink turn of her lips turning down, and Harry nodded.

“Tell me.” He was dimly aware of Louis’s presence at his side and the heat of Louis beside him was all he fucking had. 

“It’s Zayn and this goddamn child he wants to drag on tour with him,” she said, and Harry felt her words hit him like a punch to the chest. 

“What?” he said. 

“He told me he’s bringing her. He’s ordering me! And I told him no and you know what he told me?” Harry knew. He knew. 

“What did he tell you, Soph?”

“That it was all right because you already invited him to come with you.” She turned her glare on Louis and Louis stood his ground. He did not flinch and he did not look away but he did step a half step closer to Harry. Close enough for their shoulders to touch and their hands to dangle side by side. 

“I did,” Harry challenged, and his words caused Sophia to lose her goddamn mind. He should have expected it but Harry flinched and Louis did not.

“What do you expect to gain from fighting Zayn like this?!” Sophia shouted. There were fans in the building, milling at the stand where Jeff and Nick and Eleanor sold T-shirts and key chains and posters, and Sophia knew it but she was beyond caring. She was angrier than Harry had ever seen her and he needed her to calm down before his head (or hers) exploded. 

“Okay,” he said. He put his hands up and she quieted and he said again, “Okay. Let’s go to the bus. I’m not fighting. Come on, Lou.”

“He is not invited.”

“Soph, come on.”

Sophia would obey him. She had to. Harry would not do this without him. Her eyes darted between Louis and Harry, sizing them up with her lip working between her teeth, and her shoulders sagged as she conceded. Angry and giving in, she walked away without another word and Harry followed her but Louis did not. Harry doubled back, losing her, and he held his arms out at his sides.

“Lou,” he said again. Louis looked anguished for the first time since Harry had first laid eyes on him and it looked terrible on him and the idea made Harry feel sick. He never wanted to cause the kind of pain that would flash like this in Louis’s eyes. Never. He couldn’t live through it. “Lou, it’s okay,” Harry said. “Come with me.” Louis did not move.

“Lou?”

“I don’t want to cause trouble in there,” Louis said, so softly Harry almost missed it. 

“I need you there,” Harry said in reply. 

“You need me or you think you do?” Whatever he meant by that, he was crazy to think Harry was anything short of stupidly, awfully desperate for him. Harry was not a thinker and he did not think when he took Louis’s hand to make him follow at his side. This time Louis followed. He did not say a word as Harry led him outside; he moved too fast for the few fans still inside to realize who the blur who passed them by really was. Outside was a different story; the fans erupted as he left the building. They had been waiting for him. They waited in a neat line outside the bus, led by the friends of Perrie, the girl Zayn had invited along for the shit show that was the Head Space tour. She was not out here and Harry was left to assume the worst; this was going to be a fight. 

“Harry!” the fans screamed. “Stay with us!” He couldn’t. He had to go. He felt all eyes on him and he felt Louis falter at his side, stumbling over the backs of Harry’s sneakers and falling into Harry’s back. 

“Will you guys be out tonight?” the girls in the front asked him, clinging to his clothes. Harry felt all eyes on him and he felt the eyes fall on Louis and Louis tightened his hold on Harry’s hand and did not say a word. He was scared; Harry was scaring him. But he had to get inside the bus and end this fight before it began and the only way seemed to be through the endless sea of questions and screams. 

“I don’t think so, no,” Harry replied, and he tried to wave the girls away. The girl in the front of the line clung to the locked door of the bus (why had Sophia dashed inside so fast and locked the damn door behind her?) with one hand and she fixed Harry with a glare to melt steel when he got close enough to see the glitter in her lip gloss. 

“Why not?” she asked. 

“I could list the reasons,” Harry snapped. “Or you could let me in my goddamned bus.” Shock flashed across the girl’s face but she replaced it quickly with a smirk. 

“I want to get in there,” she said. “My best friend’s in there.”

“I know,” Harry said, starting to feel exhaustion in his bones. “Please let me in, all right?” He did not want to touch the girl but he was running low on options and Louis clung so tightly to his hand he thought he might lose a finger or two as Louis’s ring dug into his skin. 

“My friend is my ride home,” the girl began to whine, but there was a click from the inside of the bus and the door swung open. The girl let go of her death grip on the bus and Jeff stuck his hand out, reaching for Harry.

“Get your ass up here,” Jeff said, and Harry gratefully took Jeff’s calloused hand and let him pull both him and Louis up into the bus. “You’re in a world of trouble,” Jeff whispered in Harry’s ear. He waved to the fans and slammed the door, locking it again against the angry girls with open, gaping mouths, and he released Harry and made his way to the middle of the bus. It was not a big space, the sides of the bus lined with bunks and the middle filled with a giant kitchen table that took up all the room that was left. In the back there was a couch shaped like the letter U that curved to the shape of the bus; the space was separated from the kitchen with a heavy curtain and from there Harry could hear the unmistakable sounds of Zayn and Sophia fighting. 

Everyone else sat at the table, hands folded towards the middle, and Harry would rather be anywhere but here. 

“Soph!” Jeff called. “He’s here!” To Harry he said, “Sorry, man,” and he clapped a hand on Harry’s shoulder before turning away and taking his place in the driver’s seat at the front of the bus. Harry caught a glimpse of Nick and Eleanor hiding in there with him before Sophia’s voice made him snap his head back to the kitchen table. 

“Harry!” she screeched, face red. “Sit!” Zayn skulked in after her and he sat down hard at the empty seat at Liam’s side. He did not make eye contact with anyone. He did not mirror them, either, hiding his hands under the table and looking down at the old worn wood.

“What’s the fucking problem?” Harry asked her. This could not happen. This would not be a fight. But every face in the bus was mutinous and he knew it was far too late to become a pacifist. 

“You’re the fucking problem!” Zayn thundered. “You’ve always been the fucking problem!”

“Zayn!” Niall gasped at the same time Harry felt Louis slip his hand away. (He had forgotten they had laced hands; how stupid he was to let this happen.) 

“Shut up!” Zayn shouted at Niall.

“Don’t fucking take your anger out on him!” Liam barked. He stood, slamming his fists on the table, and Sophia did what she did best. She shrieked.

“Liam Payne, you sit down right now!” 

And Liam sat. Niall fell silent. Zayn sat, glowering, and Sophia buried her face in her hands. “We are all going to be calm now,” she told her palms. “Niall, you have the stage. Tell them what’s going to happen here.” She sank against the tiny kitchen sink, her face hidden still, and all eyes turned on Niall as he cleared his throat to speak. 

“Okay,” he said. “Okay.” He cleared his throat again and he was good and he was calm and his knuckles were white as he tried to think of what he wanted to say. “Okay. I know what Soph wants this meeting to be about. So I asked her if I could speak first before this got out of hand. There are a lot of fans just outside, guys, and we can be adults and talk about this. Got it?”

Harry nodded and so did the rest of the boys and Sophia peeked through splayed fingers as Niall got everything out and put it on the table. 

“Okay,” Niall said. “I know that no one here is stupid. We’ve all seen what this band has been through so far this year. Right?” He did not wait for a reply of any kind. “We’ve all seen what Harry has been through and the pressure he puts on himself.” Harry froze as Niall said his name, but Niall had sympathy, not accusation in his face and Harry did not put up a fight. “And we all know that tonight was the best night we’ve ever had. Right?”

“Damn straight,” Liam replied. Niall smiled but only just and his eyes flicked to Louis, standing in hiding behind Harry. 

“And I’m not exactly sure what’s going on here and I want Harry to take the floor, but for now, let me just say this. For whatever reason, I think we all know why Harry is back with us. We all saw him out there. He’s…” He cleared his throat again and his eyes (were they swimming in tears or was that the florescent lights on the ceiling?) shone as he locked them with Harry’s. “You’re back with us, Haz, and we all thought we were going to lose you.”

Zayn snorted something that sounded like, “Yeah, we placed goddamn bets,” but Liam elbowed him sharply and Zayn once again bowed his head to the table. 

“Anyway,” Niall said. “I want Harry to say his piece, but if this is going to be a vote, I vote that he can bring along whoever the hell he wants. If it makes him happy, I am happy too, and who the hell are you guys to tell him he doesn’t deserve to be happy? Fuck, we were best friends once. You can’t tell me that no part of you cares anymore because I wouldn’t believe you if you tried.” He fell silent and Harry felt so thankful he thought he might cry. But he didn’t. 

Niall closed his mouth and Sophia opened hers but before she could spew anymore poisonous nonsense, Liam spoke up.

“I agree,” he said. “If Haz is happy, so am I.” Zayn opened his mouth to protest but Niall intervened, locking eyes with Harry. 

“Let Harry tell us what’s going on,” Niall said, and under four pairs of eyes Harry froze. 

“Nothing is going on,” Harry said because he had nothing else to say. 

(I have no idea what’s wrong with me; I know I’m not usually this prone to leading people on and I don’t know why but I think my life might depend on Louis and I don’t know why I’m not dying anymore.)

“Fuck off,” Zayn spat. “Tell us about your boyfriend, Haz. Have you had an epiphany and lost all interest in girls or something? Is that why you’ve gone so carefree? Come on out, Haz; we’re waiting.” Every jaw in the room dropped as Zayn dropped each hateful word with the force of a sledgehammer over Harry’s head. 

“Zayn, you’re being such a bastard,” Niall said because he was good and Harry was not drowning but this was probably what it felt like because suddenly he couldn’t get any air and the room began to spin around him. 

(He loved girls; he loved them. He wrote songs about them and played with their hair and touched their bones through their skin and what was Zayn even trying to say?)

“Woah, I think he’s going to pass out!” Niall called, and Harry crashed against the side of the bus just as Louis’s arms wrapped strong around him to keep him from hitting the floor. “Haz?” Niall cried out, and he was across the room and on his knees before Harry’s brain had stopped crashing against his skull. 

(What was Zayn trying to say?)

(Was Harry reeling because Zayn was right?)

“I’m all right,” he said to Niall, waving him away as Zayn leapt from behind the table and tried to escape the chaos of the kitchen.

“For Christ’s sake, Soph, he’s a fucking wreck,” Zayn moaned, and she let him pass to the back of the bus without a goddamn word. Louis shook with the effort of holding Harry off the floor and Harry wanted him to stop touching him and (stay here) and leave him alone and he had no idea how to say it without breaking his fucking heart. 

“I’m sorry about him,” Niall said. “I’m so, so sorry.” 

“It’s okay,” Harry told him. “Not your fault.” He was not going to throw up and the room was going to stop spinning because if it didn’t he was going to lose his fight with gravity and spill his guts out on the dusty floor. He felt dizzy and sick and Louis’s hands were all over him and this fight had to end before it was too late.

“I’m sorry, too,” Sophia said. There was no way in hell those were tears in her voice and on her face but when Harry looked up at her from his spot on the floor, she broke down and barked out a sob that sounded like the cracking of a whip. “Harry, I want you to be happy, believe it or not. Take whoever you want along with you; I told Zayn the same. There’s nothing more I can do. Be children. I don’t care. But please, stop fighting.” 

She clicked past Harry and she met Jeff and the other roadies at the front of the bus and Harry twisted in Louis’s arms to get a look at his stricken face. 

“Hey,” Harry said. “Welcome to the fucking tour.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, message me @ ourl0veisgod on tumblr if you need to holla atcha girl.
> 
> Thank you for reading.

New England passed by in a blur of yellow lights and screaming faces. Louis was warm at Harry’s side and he tried not to mind the obviousness of the wide berth Zayn gave them. It hurt, stinging Harry deep in his heart, but he was fine. Louis was fine; Louis was better than fine. They did not talk much, not really, spending the days wandering the cities they traveled to and spending the nights sitting side by side in the kitchen of the tour bus and watching the rest of the band talk and drink and laugh. And before Harry was ready he and the rest of the band grew restless for the next leg of the tour. It surprised him, the itch he felt to run, but there it was. The next stop was the farthest The Troves had been in a long time; they were headed for London. For the first time since they bought it secondhand from a retired hair band rocker they would be leaving their tour bus behind. A shining new one waited for them at an airport overseas and all they had to do was fly across the fucking ocean to get there. 

Harry had never been more excited in his life.

He had been dreading the flight since The Troves had announced the UK and European legs of the Head Space tour; he was not afraid of heights but he was afraid of braving an eight hour flight completely and painfully sober. But things had changed faster than he could have accounted for and here he was and he was not going to be flying alone anymore. 

Harry did not own a lot of things and it was easy to pack up his life into the brand new pristine duffel bag Sophia handed him. He packed up T-shirts and socks and underwear and jeans, and Sophia rolled her eyes and rearranged it for him so everything fit with perfectly with space to spare. 

“You’ve never been to Europe, Haz,” she said, her voice gentler than Harry had heard in years. “You never know what you might need the extra space for.” Harry watched his bandmates throw belongings haphazardly into the aisle of the bus, tossing things from inside their bunks that Sophia raised her eyebrows at and stuffed into garbage bags. 

“Boys,” she scoffed, but Harry could have sworn it was warmth he detected in her voice. Where had it come from? Maybe she had been like that, happy to be the manager of a budding band, a long time ago. It was hard to remember but here she was and she was happy to help the boys pack their lives away. She color coded the identical duffel bags with a marker, scribbling each person’s name along the side, and she tried to convince Niall to do without his collection of dirty sneakers. 

“You can buy new shoes in Europe, Niall,” she said, but Niall shook his head.

“Not these,” he insisted. 

Liam packed quickly and quietly and so did Jeff and Eleanor and Nick. Sophia had already packed her bag weeks ago, she claimed, and the only person Harry had not seen all day of their last day in America was Zayn. He had not seen the girl who hung around his neck either, for that matter, and Harry tried to shake from his head the thoughts of what they could be doing as they hid. Zayn had begun to revolt Harry and the rest of his band with his behavior, sitting with the girl in his lap and sneaking her booze (this confirmed Sophia’s suspicion that the girl was not even twenty-one and Sophia scrunched up her nose at the news but had nothing else to say) from his stash on the bus. Harry had begun to worry if it was his fault that Zayn was hiding his emotions by throwing himself all into a half-cocked relationship. It was ridiculous but there it was. 

Finally, three hours before the band had to head to the airport, Zayn climbed onto the bus with the young girl in tow. She carried a bag of her own and Sophia tried to hide her groan but Harry heard it escape between clenched teeth. Sophia greeted Zayn with closed arms crossed over her chest and she led the two of them back outside to stuff their bags into the trunk of the waiting shuttle.

“I can’t believe Soph is allowing this,” Liam said. He cocked an eyebrow at Niall and scowled in silent agreement when Niall replied,

“I can’t believe Zayn is doing this.” It was crazy but there it was. He had made up his mind and Zayn was a lot of things and stubborn topped the list. Harry twisted his hands over and over to avoid looking up and having to come up with a reply. Maybe it was jealousy. Maybe it really was. It was not like Zayn to throw a tantrum over jealousy but there it was. He had been there for Harry when no one else wanted anything to do with him. And Harry had done nothing but push him away. Harry was God-awful at empathy and even worse at trying to work out anyone else’s feelings (never mind his own), but from Zayn’s perspective he knew how it must look. It was simple; he thought Harry had replaced him. Harry had no way of telling him the truth: Louis was something else entirely. Zayn was Harry’s best friend (he always would be, whether Zayn liked it or not) and Harry did not dwell on what the hell Louis was because he was a lot of things and stupid topped the list. He had no idea what Louis was. All he knew was that he (needed) wanted him to be there at his side and there was nothing else he could say.

“Jesus, Haz, are you alive in there?” Liam asked, and Harry shook his head to shake the cobwebs from the gears in his brain.

“Sorry,” he said, meeting Liam’s dark eyes and trying to smile. “What were you saying?”

“I was just telling you that your boy’s here.” 

(My boy, what did that mean?)

“Lou’s here?”

“Just outside the bus.” Liam jerked his thumb towards the steps leading to outside and Harry was down and out before Liam could say another word. 

(There was something wrong with Harry because the moment he locked eyes with Louis one word flashed through his mind that he couldn’t shake no matter how hard he tried.)

“Lou,” Harry beamed, and Louis closed the space between them and then there he was, all warm eyes and a warm smile and warm hands. In one hand he carried a backpack and it made him walk crooked and Harry took it from him and handed it to Sophia, who grunted and nearly dropped it on the pavement. 

“I quit my job,” Louis said, and his teeth flashed in the sun as he smiled so wide the corners of his eyes crinkled up. The world shrank and Harry could still hear Zayn’s voice as he rattled off the list of venues they would play across the ocean to the girl under his arm but it sounded far away. The sun gleamed on Louis and touched down in his hair and bounced off the buttons of his denim jacket. The chilled air all around them caused twin spots of red to bloom high on his cheeks and Harry was stupid and he couldn’t think of anything at all to say. 

“I quit my fucking job,” Louis said again, and he looked so happy he might cry. “I left my apartment. It’s all over.” 

Harry had not given thought to the consequences of inviting Louis along; Harry had been in this life for so long he had forgotten what it meant to have a home.

(And I swear to God I hope to see you because maybe then I’d have a home.) 

But all at once Harry realized that Louis had a life and the moment Harry stepped into it, it was all over. Harry uprooted him for no other reason except he (needed) wanted to. What was wrong with him? Louis had a home and it was here and what right did Harry have to rip it all away from him? 

“Are you all right?” Louis asked. Concern lit up his face and Harry didn’t want to see it and he didn’t know what to do. 

“Fine,” Harry said. He did not ask any of the things he should have, like, “What are you going to do once we finish the tour?” or “What are you going to do when I ruin you?” Something was wrong with him and his throat locked up because the only thing he could think was soul mate and there was something so, so wrong with that. What did that even mean? Maybe Louis was not his best friend; that was Zayn’s spot. But he stood at Harry’s side and he was fucking something. 

Harry didn’t have it in him (he wasn’t brave enough and he wasn’t kind enough) to think about it now. Louis stood before him and he was (beautiful) so happy he might burst and Harry was (smitten) so excited he thought he might do the same. But he didn’t. 

Zayn bickered with Liam as they fought for space in the trunk of the shuttle and the world crashed around Harry’s ears all at once. The noise came back. The world was all around him. 

(What was wrong with him?)

Louis had his head cocked to the side like a fucking dog as he looked at Harry and Harry had no idea what he was going to say when this was all over. It was going to end. Louis was going to find out just what kind of guy Harry was. He was not made for this life and Harry’s heart was no goddamn home but here he was and so was Harry and he had no idea what he was going to do to keep this thing from ending. 

Harry was selfish and he was mean and he (craved) wanted to feel anything but the frigid early October air all around them and he took one step forward and dragged Louis into his arms. 

“Thank you,” Harry said, and as his lips brushed Louis’s ear he said, “for doing this for me.” With Louis crushed to his chest he could do anything. Who gave a damn what (Zayn) anyone else had to say? It didn’t matter. Nothing did. He was all right. And this was okay. 

“Break it up,” Liam said, and he slapped Harry on the back. He did not say it in anger but Zayn snorted, making a quiet comment only the girl at his side could hear. 

Harry was not feeling forgiving today (the world had taken his best friend from him) and he released Louis and he barked at Zayn “What do you want to say to me?” Zayn’s smile slid right off his face and the girl (was it Perrie?) at his side giggled. 

“Nothing,” Zayn snapped. (Just when had his face gotten so cold? He used to smile at Harry through the hair that more often than not hung too long in his face, and after that he used to hold Harry by the back of the neck as he puked his guts out in hotel bathrooms.) 

Harry felt Louis’s hand brush the small of his back, his hand so small, and then he felt a tug as Louis tangled his fingers into the fabric of Harry’s T-shirt. He did not do it to get Harry’s attention. Harry knew that. He did it to tell him one thing: I’m here. (How did he know that?) Zayn saw and his face went sour and there was no trace of the man who promised Harry in Denver that everything would be okay. 

“I told Zayn earlier what my friends said,” the girl at Zayn’s side spoke up, choosing to speak for him if he was not going to speak for himself. 

“And what was that?” Harry asked. If Liam or Niall or Sophia watched the beginnings of this fight unfold, they were silent and they had nothing to say. Harry didn’t mind. He didn’t care. “Tell me.” 

“Pez,” Zayn said softly, remorse flashing so briefly across his face Harry almost didn’t see. “Don’t.” 

But she did. She opened her big mouth and what came out confirmed Harry’s (fear) suspicion that Sophia listened behind his back as she gasped. 

“My friends saw you and your, um…” Perrie said. She was either exceptionally dumb or a good actress, her mouth hung open like a fish. “I don’t know, your boyfriend? They saw you two holding hands the other night.”

Harry thought back and he thought quickly and there it was. Maybe he had slipped his hand into Louis’s to pull him to safety on the tour bus, but what did that matter? Harry could not count on every limb he had the amount of times he and Zayn and Liam and Niall had locked hands for any reason; they did it all the fucking time. They helped each other climb on stage and they all held hands together to bow at the end of a great show and what the fuck did it matter to this girl who had no idea what she was talking about? 

Louis tightened his hold on the hem of Harry’s shirt and Harry was so angry he saw stars. What gave her the right to stand there and smirk and pretend she knew what mattered to Harry? Who the hell did she think she was? 

“So?” Liam barked, and there he was. He was listening, too, and it didn’t fucking matter. Zayn was gone and the man who replaced him was a coward as he stood and let the girl tucked into his armpit speak for him. 

“So,” the girl said with a shrug, finally beginning to realize she had gone too far as the band and as Sophia stared at her. “You know how rumors spread.”

“We’re not usually the subject of rumors,” Liam barked. “Why don’t you fucking spell it out for us?”

“Oh, for God’s sake,” she said. She rolled her eyes and the sun glinted off her silver hairband and Zayn was quiet at her side. “They’re all saying you’re, you know, together.”

Bang. Silence. Liam closed his mouth and Harry bowed his head and he wanted to close his eyes and run away but he was here and so was everyone else and he knew he had to stay. What the hell was wrong with him? 

“Oh,” Sophia said, and she was the first one to break the silence. Harry could feel her eyes boring into him and he couldn’t look at her. He couldn’t. Louis held onto his shirt and he wanted to shrug him off but Harry did not want to be a heartbreaker anymore and he couldn’t. He didn’t have it in him. 

And then Liam spoke again. “So?” he said. “What would it fucking matter even if they were? Do you think we give a shit about fans that wouldn’t support us no matter what?” 

To that, Perrie and Zayn had no reply. Liam was good, Liam was so fucking good, and Harry was lost but he knew one thing. He owed Liam the world for coming through for him. He thought he had owed Zayn but he ripped the world from underneath his feet and as Zayn refused eye contact with anyone standing with him on the street, Harry decided they were even. It was over. Their friendship was irreparable, unsalvageable, and it didn’t fucking matter. 

Nothing did. 

(What the hell was a soul mate, anyway? Maybe it was someone who understood better than anyone what it meant to be together and what it meant to see the stars from a New York City rooftop.) 

Sophia cleared her throat and unceremoniously she shoved Zayn headfirst into the shuttle and the girl after him, placing herself and Jeff and Eleanor between Perrie and Liam. Harry was grateful for the swift end she brought to the fight between him and Zayn but it bubbled slow deep in his chest and he had the feeling none of the bad feelings were going to go away. Niall sat at Liam’s side and Nick piled in next, leaving Harry and Louis to clamber in after him. An airport employee drove the shuttle to the tarmac where a dozen airplanes sat in waiting. Somehow they were running late and Sophia ushered the band and the ragtag team of tagalongs out of the shuttle, where she rapped on the trunk until the driver popped it open. She handed out bags with both hands and grabbed her own, managing to reapply her pink lipstick with one hand as they waited in line to check their luggage. 

“You look fine, Sophia,” Harry tried, his throat tight from the words Zayn slung at him he puzzled over fruitlessly, but she swatted the compliment away. 

“You guys exhaust me,” she said. “I got maybe two hours of sleep. Don’t tell me I look anything but awful!” But when Liam said to her,

“You kind of do look awful,” clearly as a joke, he got a swift swat to the ear in reply. He caught Harry’s eye and he winked and Harry wondered how it happened that Liam became the quickest in the group to toss around a joke. They checked their bags and made their way through security, momentarily derailed by the box cutter Nick had forgotten he carried, and Sophia handed out boarding passes at lightning speed. Harry was used to the chaos of this life but Louis stood in wide eyed wonderment at Harry’s side. He looked (gorgeous) thrilled to death as they stood in line to board the plane bound for London, England, and when he squeezed Harry’s arm he did not shake him off. 

Liam and Niall (always as one) went first. The roadies and Zayn and Perrie came next, and then Sophia and then Harry and Louis. Harry handed off his ticket and Louis was elated as he passed on his. 

“Have you ever been on a plane before?” Harry asked him as they made the long walk through the gate to the plane. 

“Never,” Louis replied. “Is it scary?”

(Not as scary as a lot of things, like the thought of dying in a dirty alley with a needle in one arm, or the thought of losing this band forever.)

“No,” Harry said. “Not at all.” 

Sophia was an old pro at what she did but the events of the past few weeks had frazzled her and she had forgotten until the week before to book the plane tickets. “It’s a miracle we all got on the same plane!” she had shouted, arms to the sky in the tour bus. The addition of Perrie and Louis had nearly given her an aneurism but she was good and she got the job done. Strangers separated The Troves and the roadies, leaving half to sit in singles and pairs towards the front and the rest squished together in the back. Harry and Louis made their way to the back of the plane, Eleanor and Nick on their heels, and Eleanor stood too close to Harry and kept stepping on the backs of his Chuck Taylors but it didn’t bother him. His shoelaces were untied and he tripped more than once, spilling forwards and nearly toppling Louis. 

“Sorry!” he said for the second time as his hands landed on Louis’s shoulders. For the second time Louis assured him it was all right and finally they found their seats. Eleanor and Nick sat across the aisle from Harry and Louis and they quickly settled down, chatting with each other like they always did. 

“Do you want the window?” Harry asked, having seen the sight of the world falling away enough for one lifetime. 

“Yes,” Louis immediately replied. He sat down and so did Harry and there was hardly any leg room and the air was thick and stuffy but Harry didn’t mind. He had a feeling that the oxygen masks could fall and the plane could rattle in the air and still he would not mind. 

(Whatever was wrong with him, maybe wrong was not quite the right word anymore.)

The last time Harry had flown on a plane he had sat down and immediately fallen asleep, the result of swallowing far too many painkillers. Now, maybe there was a twinge of yearning in his gut for something to take the edge off the sharpness of the world, but the pain was not as bad as he expected it to be. Maybe he wasn’t a junkie. Maybe he wasn’t an addict. Maybe he would be okay. 

Up in the front of the plane Zayn was already trying to order booze and Harry wanted to go to him and shake him and ask him where the hell Harry’s best friend went. Zayn used to brush Harry’s hair back as he leaned on dirty toilets and he used to make Harry promise nothing would ever tear them apart. The flight attendant shook her head and Harry couldn’t hear what she said but Zayn didn’t like it. Harry buckled in and so did Louis and before he was ready the pilot’s voice crackled over the loudspeaker and the plane began to glide along the tarmac. 

Louis’s knee touched Harry’s and Harry could smell the cinnamon and sugar scent of him and he had no idea what to do. Louis had Harry’s full attention but the world outside the window had Louis’s. (How could Harry be jealous of the cloudless sky? But there it was.) Louis was rapt as faster and faster the runway slipped by them. The plane picked up speed and Louis’s knuckles were white on the armrest between him and Harry. Was he scared? Should Harry ask him if he was? (Harry hated to be asked that question.) He didn’t ask him. Louis watched the pavement and Harry watched him (as always there were locks of hair tucked into the collar of Louis’s jacket and Harry wanted to untuck it for him but maybe then he wouldn’t be Louis) and as the front of the plane began to tilt the usual lurch liftoff caused in Harry’s chest was entirely absent. Harry heard Louis whisper something to himself that sounded like, 

“Oh my God,” and Harry did not think when he propped his chin on Louis’s shoulder and watched from behind the hair tucked around his ear as the plane rose up from the pavement. The plane tilted back and Harry leaned against the worn blue fabric of his seat. The airport fell away and Louis pressed a hand to the window between him and a tiny, faraway universe. 

Harry had forgotten how beautiful the view could be. (He had forgotten how beautiful the world could be; his life before this moment shrouded in fog from the drugs and the drinks he poured into his body.) His cheek touched Louis’s throat and he was so, so warm, and as Louis marveled over the oranges and reds of New England trees far below them Harry marveled over him. (What was wrong with him?) Louis shifted in his seat and twisted away from the window to turn his knees towards Harry. Harry moved back and lifted his head, close enough to Louis to (taste him) hear him even as he whispered.

“This is amazing,” Louis breathed, and Harry had to agree. 

(Maybe nothing was wrong with him.) 

But the thought was hard to fathom and it was even harder to figure out how all of this had come to be. So Harry bowed his head and he looked away because maybe if he pretended none of this was real it would all go away. Ignoring things was what he did best, after all. A flight attendant paced the aisle and she asked Harry if he would like anything to drink (last year he would have said something stupid like, “a gin and tonic”) and he could feel Louis so warm at his side and he said, “Just a Coke.” She peered at Louis and asked him the same and he asked for the same and she poured them two plastic cups of soda and left them alone again. Harry lifted his cup to his lips, the fizz tickling his nose, and Louis stopped him.

“Wait.”

“What?” Harry looked at him sideways out of the corner of his eye; looking directly at Louis was sort of like looking directly into the sun. 

“Cheers,” Louis said, clinking his plastic cup with Harry’s. 

“Salud,” Harry agreed. He took a sip and then another; when was the last time he drank something poisoned with nothing heavier than caffeine? Harry kneed open the tray before him and dropped his drink into his cup holder and a moment later Louis did the same. The tray eliminated the last of his leg room but he didn’t really mind. That was all right. Everything was all right. Watching the sun set outside the tiny window was surreal and they were going to arrive in London just in time to be out of the airport at dawn and that was all right because Harry was all right and everything was okay. 

Rows and rows ahead of him Zayn kissed Perrie hard enough to make her pull back and laugh, gasping for air, and maybe that was not all right. She had been at his side like a puppy for less than two fucking weeks! Harry wanted to shake Zayn; there was no reason for him to be kissing a girl like that unless Zayn was in love or something damn close to it. Zayn was crazy and it drove Harry crazy but maybe that was how things were going to be from here on out. 

Harry had to remind himself to inhale and exhale because maybe there were just going to be things that would never be okay again. It was completely unfair; it was fucking bullshit that this was where the years of practice in a dusty garage had brought them. Harry was not a dweller but there it was and he couldn’t shake the cobwebs from his head even if he tried. 

The sun went down and the only things left to remind Harry that the plane was not the only piece left of his universe were Louis at his side and the tiny pinpricks of light coming from headlights and houses and streetlamps. (The view from the roof of a New York City apartment brought about much the same in terms of broken record thoughts; maybe Harry was meant to be alone.) One by one the passengers all around Harry began to fall asleep. Nick snored on Eleanor’s shoulder and she leaned with her mouth open on the top of his head. His wild chestnut hair was stuck in wisps in the corner of her lips and in her sleep she brushed them away. Zayn was asleep and so was Perrie; Sophia and Jeff and Niall and Liam succumbed one after the other as the night wore on. 

Just like the goddamn stars, Harry thrived at night. The same could be said for Louis, it seemed; he stared out the window with his face almost up against the glass and looked just as bright as he had that afternoon as they piled into the shuttle bus. The silence hanging between them stretched longer and longer and Harry did not want to be the first one to break it. Maybe he yearned to hear a voice and maybe it was okay that it was Louis’s he wanted to hear but he wasn’t ready to tell him that just yet. 

Wide awake and so close to Louis he could hear him breathe, Harry pushed his tray out of the way and stood. He saw Louis move out of the corner of his eye and if he turned his head just an inch to the right he would come face to face with him, but he didn’t. He stepped sideways out into the aisle and he made his way towards the front of the plane. If the world was going to fall silent all around him there was something he could do about it. Sophia kept a notebook in the side pocket of her purse; she kept it there for ‘emergencies’, as she called them, when Harry conjured up a lyric he just couldn’t let slip away. He tried not to wake her as he crouched in the aisle by the bag she kept on the floor between her black high heels. But as he rummaged through her bag as fast as he could, a hand with red painted talons snatched his wrist. 

“Haz,” Sophia said, and he looked up from the aisle floor to smile sheepishly at her.

“Yes?” he asked. 

“What are you doing?” 

“I need my notebook, Sophia.” Her confusion melted away and a grin replaced it, the smile on her face such a rare sight Harry had no idea how to react. 

“Right here, Haz,” she said, guiding his hand into the depths of her bag where his fingers met the cold spirals of the battered notebook.

“Thank you,” he whispered, and Sophia squeezed his wrist before releasing him and closing her eyes again. Her breathing had slowed down to the rhythmic pace of sleep again by the time Harry returned to his seat. Louis looked at him and Harry looked at Louis and a smile crept across Louis’s face.

“What are you doing?” he asked, curiosity rather than accusation in his voice like Sophia had had in hers. 

“Just watch.” This was crazy and Harry was losing his mind but there it was. He flipped through the crisp white pages, the margins and lines filled with the tilted script of a madman. 

“Oh, wow,” Louis breathed, and Harry knew why. He flipped by the lyrics, dated 10/16/2009, to the song Louis had written on his skin. He passed by the song but changed his mind and turned back to it, looking at those words for the first time in five long years. He tended to scribble down words and leave Sophia to transcribe them into a notebook of her own that she left in the recording studio back in Los Angeles. He only opened this notebook once per song, spilling his goddamn guts out (it was a miracle the notebook was so clean with all the blood he had poured onto the pages) and then slamming it shut to hide the words away. But this time was different. This time, maybe he was a different man. 

“No,” Louis breathed as Harry took hold of the page, but there it was. Harry ripped out the lyrics to Hope to See You and he handed them off to Louis and Louis took the page in both hands and looked down at it and he pulled his lip into his mouth and he closed his bright blue eyes. Harry thought he might cry and he felt his heart stop and stutter and start again. No, he was not going to let Louis cry through his actions; he refused. Louis ran his thumb over the words on the page, not seeing them at all, and when he opened his eyes he turned them on Harry. 

“Harry,” he said like he was tasting Harry’s name.

“What?” 

“Can I tell you something without scaring you?”

“I’m not scared of anything,” Harry was quick to reply. Louis bowed his head and that was Harry’s way of escape and it looked better on Louis than it ever could on him, but then Louis looked up again and he said,

“Harry, you keep finding ways to astound me.” Harry paused.

“Astound you?” he asked. There was no way someone as selfish and awful and broken as he was could astound someone like Louis. Louis was good and kind and he was brave and Harry felt a headache coming on as Louis searched his face with wide eyes. Maybe he could do this but maybe he wasn’t meant to; he had no idea anymore. Something about this was all wrong and Louis began to speak with his voice hushed and his face open and Harry wanted to (kiss him) lean in close so he could be the only one who ever got to hear the sound of Louis’s voice. (He was a lot of fucking things and selfish definitely topped the list.) 

“Yes,” Louis said. The paper crinkled in his hands and he couldn’t possibly get any closer. “Harry, I can’t believe you have no idea how incredible you are.” 

(Incredibly unreliable, maybe; incredibly hard to care for, for sure. But incredible? It made no fucking sense but maybe it was not supposed to.)

“Me?” Harry said, voice stupidly weak, as if there was anyone else in this plane who had the dazzling luck of being the one with Louis’s full attention. 

“Yes, you.” The sky was pitch black and the plane was so dim and Harry had nowhere else to look but straight into Louis’s face. 

“Why do you say that?”

(Why are you looking at me like I’m the only person in the world?)

“It’s true, Haz.” Harry wanted to brush it off and tell Louis he was wrong, wrong, wrong, but his throat was sticky and Louis’s hands were pale on the paper clenched under his fingers and he couldn’t have spoken if he wanted to. What gave Louis the right to be so (beautiful) close to him and make him want to cry? The smile on Louis’s lips was as delicate as the rest of him, like the simplest touch could send it tumbling down. He had to look away before he did something stupid like (kiss him) tell Louis he just might be the world. 

Harry tore his eyes from Louis and it hurt but not too much because he could still feel Louis watching him as he flipped with shaking hands through the rest of the old notebook in his palms. Years flew by like lightning and he settled on an empty page, ripping the cap off the pen Sophia had tucked into the spiral spine with his teeth and pressing the pen to paper. 

“Just watch,” he managed to say, and Louis obeyed him. He had an idea that the song he rushed out onto the paper was about the boy sitting breathless at his side but he didn’t have the words on his tongue to say it out loud. He could write it down, though. Writing words down to avoid saying them out loud was just what he did best. Maybe he was crazy for letting Louis in but Louis was crazier for his desire to step inside. So what did it matter? Everything was all right.

Sure thing.

Harry’s hands shook so badly he could barely get ink from the pen clenched in his hand. But the words came slow and then fast and Harry couldn’t tell if Louis was even breathing for staring at the page and it didn’t really matter anyway. 

“Maybe I’m a little prone to nosebleeds,” he wrote, “to throwing up and falling down.” He smudged the side of his hand with the deep blue ink (he always did that, it seemed) and it didn’t bother him. As hard (impossible) as it was to share his thoughts with his mouth, it was twice as easy to release them like blood from a wound. 

“I know I’m prone to feeling broken, but maybe I can still astound.” It was okay when Louis watched him write and dammit, it was okay when Louis found Harry’s thigh with one hand. 

“I’m so used to keeping my head down, to hiding my heart underground.” It was okay that Harry shook as he wrote and it was okay that he began to see stars. “Maybe it’s time to see clearly, I’m better when you are around.” 

And there it was. Harry felt the weight of the world fall away from him as the pen in his fist did all the talking. Spelled out before him it didn’t look so scary. What was he afraid of? What did he have to fear? And then Louis made a noise in the back of his throat that almost sounded like a sob and Harry remembered. 

“Lou?” Harry said, and he tilted his head to try and catch Louis’s eye. But Louis looked down and maybe Harry was wrong and maybe Louis did not want any of this and maybe he was about to run away and all at once Harry realized one thing: he would not survive that. Louis clutched the torn piece of paper in his hands and he looked down at the words and Harry could see nothing of his face but the ski slope turn of his nose and the eyelashes that cast shadows on his cheeks in the nearly nonexistent light inside the plane. He wanted to beg Louis not to run and he wanted to plead with him to not be scared but who was he to say something like that and who the hell did he think he was trying to pull words from thin air like that in the hopes that maybe then Louis would understand? 

Harry and Louis may as well have been the only two people alive in the universe and if that was not enough to scare the life out of Harry, the way Louis refused to meet his gaze definitely was. 

“Lou, hey,” Harry tried, and he could keep desperation from his voice but not for long. He was crazy and he was stupid but maybe he had said too much. Maybe he had gotten Louis all wrong. What was wrong with him? But then Louis spoke and Harry clung to every word.

“Haz,” he said. “Why do you think so little of yourself?”

“Is that all you have to say?” Harry snapped before he could get control of his voice. Louis inhaled and he released it in a sigh. 

“I could say a million different things right now.”

“So why don’t you?”

It took Louis a long time to respond. “Because,” he finally breathed, “I don’t know what I can say to make sure I never say too much. I’m scared that if I say the things I want to, you’re going to run away.” Harry almost wanted to laugh at the absurdity of it all. 

“Lou,” he said. Still Louis did not look at him. The thought of touching his cheek and making him look was tempting. But he sat perfectly still on the edge of his seat and so did Louis; he may as well have been made of stone. “Louis, I’m not going to run away.”

Again Louis paused, in search of the right reply. “Me either,” he finally said. And then, “Maybe not ever again.” 

(Thank God, thank God, because Harry was a lot of things and he knew he couldn’t survive the blow of losing Louis.)

Whatever this mess was, whatever Louis saw in him, it was all that mattered. Maybe Harry was bad at friends but he was good at other things and maybe he was good at (lovers) soul mates. He was not scared of anything but he sure was afraid of Louis and finally he lifted his head and when he did Harry’s heart crashed into his stomach because tears clung bright like stars to the ends of Louis’s eyelashes. 

“Lou,” Harry breathed. “No, Lou…” He couldn’t ask Louis what was wrong because all that mattered was it was Harry’s fault and he was broken and he was a heartbreaker and Louis was fucking crying and Harry had no idea what to do to fix it. Louis’s eyes were red and he tweaked at his nose and when he blinked, the tears glistening on his cheeks finally fell. They landed hot on Harry’s jeans and with his thumb Harry wiped each one away. “Lou, please.” He sounded as if he was about to crack in two. Maybe he was. He did the only thing he could think of and it was so, so stupid but he did it anyway and he let his notebook hit the floor and he raised both hands and pressed them to Louis’s cheeks. With his thumbs he brushed at the tears in Louis’s eyes and his face was warm and his eyes looked for something (what was he looking for?) in Harry’s face. 

“What is it?” Harry managed, his voice coming out a croak. He was close enough to (kiss) see the tracks tears left on Louis’s cheeks and Louis eyes were the color of the sky and it wasn’t fucking fair. It wasn’t fucking fair that he let Louis in and Louis was too scared to do the same and Harry wanted to scream and fall apart but he was here and so was Louis and there was nothing he could do but catch each tear as it fell and try and make them stop falling before Louis fell to pieces. 

“Harry,” Louis moaned, and he dragged his lip into his mouth and bit down hard, leaving an imprint of his teeth on the rosy, spit slicked skin. 

“What?”

“I’m a little bit scared right now.”

“Yeah?” It was a goddamn miracle Harry could speak around the hot lump in his throat. 

“Yeah,” Louis nodded. He closed his eyes and Harry hurt deep in his chest for missing them but Louis spoke and Harry was all ears. “I’m scared of a lot of things. If I tell you what I’m afraid of, am I going to scare you?”

“I don’t scare easy,” Harry lied. Louis accepted anyway, nodding again, and his skin was soft and Harry shook hard enough to rattle his teeth in his head but he couldn’t have taken his hands from Louis’s cheeks if his life depended on it.

“Okay,” Louis said. “Okay. Listen. I know a thing or two about heartbreak, Haz, and I know that you do, too. I just want you to know that if you let me, I’m going to be all in, and I can’t guarantee I will ever want out. Do you understand me?” 

“Yes.” (He did, he did, Louis was going to give Harry the power to ruin him and he was asking Harry to accept; how could he do that? Who did he think he was, handing his heart to Harry and asking him to keep it safe?) 

“What is that song called, Haz? The one you’re going to write for me?” 

(He was good and he knew and there was no way out.)

But it was simple because Louis was and Harry knew the name before he even knew the words. “Of the Color of the Sky,” Harry said, and Louis’s lips quirked up and Harry wanted to (kiss him) tell him everything was going to be okay because Harry might just do something crazy like (fall in love) let Louis in, and what would happen then? 

It was far too late to let questions bubble to the surface because Louis surged forward and Harry released him and Louis pressed his face into the crook of Harry’s neck, his forehead at Harry’s throat, and it didn’t matter that Harry was breaking. It didn’t fucking matter. 

“I’m sorry,” Harry said because it was the only thing he could think of to say. 

(I’m sorry that you met me and I’m sorry that my words are inked on you and I’m sorry that I can’t make any promises not to break you.)

“Don’t be sorry,” Louis said, voice muffled by Harry’s T-shirt. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Harry replied. This was crazy and Harry was stupid and Louis was hot in his arms and as Harry stared out the tiny window of the plane he wondered how the hell he got this far and how far he was going to be able to carry on. It didn’t matter. It didn’t fucking matter. 

 

Louis slept curled up against Harry, the armrest between them jutting painfully into Harry’s side, but it did not bother him. Harry’s phone read 12:13 A.M. when the plane touched down in London but the black of the sky already lightening to the deepest blue told a different story. Harry was tired but only in his bones; his mind was racing and his brain was wide awake. As the plane jolted when it hit the tarmac one by one the passengers awoke. Louis stirred against Harry’s side, his cheek on Harry’s shoulder, and Harry wanted to take hold of the quiet moment and lock it up and keep it forever. He didn’t get the chance but that was all right. Slowly Louis came back to life, yawning so wide his jaw cracked, and even slower came the movement of passengers beginning to struggle to their feet. 

“Lou,” Harry said for no reason except to hear the name on his tongue. “Lou, time to go.” 

“London,” Louis breathed, and he was so (beautiful) graceless and slow as he dragged himself from sleep that Harry had to swallow back a laugh. Louis shoved his tray up and stretched out his legs, his head dropping back onto Harry’s shoulder. “I love London,” he moaned. 

“You haven’t even seen it yet.”

“I know,” Louis said as Harry wiggled away and stood on shaky legs. “But I know I’m going to love it.” Louis looked up at Harry and Harry looked down at him and without meaning to Harry offered Louis one hand. “Thanks,” Louis said, and he let Harry pull him to his feet. The rest of the band and the roadies had already left the plane and Louis yawned again and again as they moved to follow. 

“You’re not a morning person, are you?” Harry asked. 

“Hardly. But it’s the middle of the night.” Louis tripped over his own feet and Harry caught him by the elbow as they made their way together towards the rest of their group who stood waiting at baggage claim. 

“Maybe at home,” Harry said, “but here it’s morning!”

“Ugh,” Louis grumbled. He mussed with his hair and Harry did not tell him about the cowlick that stuck up at the back of his head. Zayn and the rest of the band looked no better off than Louis; Niall leaned hard on Liam for support and Eleanor yawned, eyes closed, against the wall with one leg propped up behind her like a bird. 

“You guys look fucking dead,” Harry said, clapping a hand on Sophia’s back. She waved him off, watching the bags and suitcases on the baggage claim pass them by as she waited for their own. 

“What makes you so chipper?” Jeff laughed through a yawn that stretched his mouth wide. 

“I just didn’t sleep,” Harry replied. 

“Ugh,” Jeff said. 

“Yeah, let’s see how awake you are when the sun comes up,” Eleanor added. She caught sight of her bag on the revolving carousel of luggage and she grabbed it, slinging it over her shoulder, and she grabbed for Sophia’s and handed it off to her. 

“Thanks,” Sophia said shortly. She was tired and far from her usual snappy self and for that Harry was glad. She was quiet as she pulled bag after bag from the belt and handed them off. Zayn’s came last and she shoved it unceremoniously into his hand. 

“Thanks, Soph,” he said blearily, and then she snapped her fingers to gather the attention of the pieces of the group that had begun to wander away. 

“All right, guys,” Sophia said, faking alertness. “There’s a van waiting for us outside to take us to our hotel. Don’t wander off once we get there, please, you have two damn days off to sleep before your first show and I won’t be losing you to sleep before I can get you all organized. Do you hear me?” The mumbled replies of nine voices blurred together and Sophia rolled her eyes at the chaos of them but accepted it was the best she could get. “All right,” she said. “Let’s get out of here.” 

Nine pairs of stumbling feet followed behind Sophia as she led the way out of the airport and into the rising dawn. 

“Aw, fuck,” Eleanor breathed as they neared the front door, and Harry followed her gaze to find out why. It was something simple but something that made Sophia frown; outside the doors of the airport rain poured on the pavement in the misty morning. 

“Oh, don’t be babies,” Sophia ordered as the group hesitated by the door. “The van is right outside, seriously. Follow me, will you?” 

Harry for one was not afraid of a little rain. Louis was not, either, and he strode by Harry’s side as they burst through the door of the airport and into the icy London air. Rain pelted Harry and landed frigid on his face but it didn’t really matter. He saw the waiting van in the parking lot and he heard the doors open from behind him as the rest of the crew stepped outside. 

“I love it here,” Louis said. “I knew I would.” Harry turned his head to look at him and he smiled bright and Harry tripped over the curb and Louis’s smile turned into a laugh. “Careful, babe,” he said, and maybe that was okay. Maybe it was all right. Sophia breezed past them, muttering under her breath, and she rapped at the driver’s side door of the van and called, 

“Could you give us a hand, please?” She shielded her face with one arm but the rain fell in a steady sheet and the attempt to spare her face from it was futile. The driver hopped out of the van and popped open the back and helped Sophia load the bags in one by one. “All right,” she called over the sound of the pouring rain. “All of you in!” Single file the band and the roadies clambered, slipping and sliding, into the van. It was blessedly warm inside the van and Louis climbed in last, yanking the door shut and sitting down too fast and landing haphazardly in Harry’s lap. 

“Sorry!” he laughed, and maybe it was okay and maybe Harry didn’t mind. But from her seat beside the driver, Sophia barked, 

“Stop fooling around and buckle your seatbelts!” 

“Sorry,” Harry said, and Louis laughed as Harry shoved him away. From behind Harry, Zayn shook his head out like a dog and Perrie and Eleanor shrieked as he doused them with water. 

“You were already wet,” he reminded them, and Eleanor slapped him on the arm and Sophia twisted in her seat to glare at them until the giggling subsided. Louis looked at Harry and Harry looked at him and dammit, Louis looked (gorgeous) like sunshine as rain dripped from his hair and from his eyelashes (like the tears Harry had caused and slowed on the plane). Fresh stubble dotted his chin and his cheeks and he looked exhausted but he looked (lovely) good and he looked happy and that was all that really mattered to Harry. 

The ride to the hotel passed by in silence as the sky brightened, the sun struggling behind the endless clouds. The Troves were going to play seven shows in three venues in London, spanned over two weeks, and Harry looked forward immensely to a hotel room with a hot tub, cable TV, and a bed big enough to stretch out on. They would have to go back to a tour bus once they left London but for the moment Harry reveled in the thought of a room he did not have to share with his band. At his side Louis brushed his hair back from his forehead and he grinned when he caught Harry staring but that was all right by him. The ride was short but by the time the van pulled up in front of the hotel lobby the rain had slowed to a mist instead of a downpour. Sophia hustled them off the van and again she handed out bags and warned them to not step out of her sight for one second before she could hand out room keys upon checking in. 

“We’re not babies,” Niall joked, and Jeff laughed and said,

“Maybe you’re not. I could use a fucking nap, so I just might be.” Sophia waltzed into the hotel, dripping in her high heels, and the ragtag team of yawning misfits followed close behind her. She dropped her bag and checked them in, gabbing comfortably with the man at the front desk as he handed out a handful of electronic room keys with the hotel’s logo stamped on them in green. 

“Okay, get over here!” Sophia snapped to the roadies and to Zayn and Perrie, who had wandered away towards the coffeemaker in the corner of the lobby. “Eleanor, you’re with me in 401,” she said, handing Eleanor a key and nodding distractedly when Eleanor asked if she could head upstairs and go to sleep. “Zayn and Perrie, here you go…uh…” Sophia fumbled the pile of keys and Jeff laughed, stepping forward to take half of them off her and help pass them out. Niall and Liam took their keys and gave silly salutes that only made Sophia grumpier as they headed to the elevator up to the fourth floor. “Jeff,” Sophia said, “you’re the luckiest one out of all of us; looks like you’ve got the only single in the hallway! Get out of here, go to bed.” She waved Jeff away and then she handed over the last two keys to Harry and Louis. 

“I have a lot to do to plan for the next few days,” she told them. “For the love of God and for my sanity, get some rest. I’ll be in the lobby most of the day if you need me. Okay?” 

Okay. Everything was okay. Harry nodded and so did Louis and together they picked their dripping bags off the lobby floor and carried them, lopsided under the weight, towards the elevator. They were in room 407, across the hall from Zayn and Perrie and next door to Niall and Liam. Louis’s bag made a steady drip, drip, drip sound as water bounced from the bottom onto the tile floor of the elevator and Harry smiled because he knew Louis was smiling, too. The day had caught up with Harry by the time the elevator doors opened to the fourth floor and he yawned as Louis dropped his bag and fumbled with the key to their room. Harry was not usually exceptional at taking in his surroundings and all he saw of the hallway before stepping into his room was the red color of the carpet and the ritzy chandeliers that hung from the ceiling. 

The door slammed behind Harry and hit him in the ass as he stumbled into the room. Louis had already dashed to the window and pulled back the curtains and he leaned over the windowsill to watch the streets of London down below. Harry stood in the doorway and he didn’t mean to but he stood there and watched Louis watch the world pass by. Slowly Louis began to shiver and he shrugged out of his faded denim jacket and let it hit the floor with a soft thump. Harry watched the way his shoulders moved beneath his T-shirt but maybe that was all right. Maybe he could do that if he wanted and maybe it was okay that he didn’t look away when Louis lifted his arms and peeled off his shirt and dropped it on top of his jacket. Louis stretched, locking his hands above his heads with his fingers pointed to the ceiling, and he stood on his tiptoes and cracked his back. 

Maybe this was okay. Maybe it didn’t matter. 

There were tattoos Harry had not seen on Louis’s back and on his shoulders and maybe it was okay that Harry wanted to go to him and touch his skin and take in the colors of the ink. Maybe it was all right that he wanted to (kiss) touch the crook of Louis’s neck and maybe there was nothing wrong with him. Louis spun on his heels and he caught Harry staring and when he grinned Harry felt his cheeks burn red. 

“What?” Louis asked, but his smile told Harry he knew exactly what Harry watched him for. 

“Nothing,” Harry said. But that was not true because there were tattoos on Louis’s chest, too far away for Harry to see, and his face and his hands were so delicate but his body was not and was it all right that Harry admired the muscles in Louis’s arms and in his chest? He had no idea but suddenly he felt tired enough to sleep through the day and his bag hit the floor and instead of going to Louis like he (needed) wanted to, he kicked off his sopping shoes and unzipped his jacket and tumbled face first onto the bed closest to the door. Dimly he heard Louis sit on the other bed and he pressed his face into the warm bed and maybe this was okay but it sure didn’t feel like it. 

Harry wanted to tell Louis that he confused him and he didn’t know what he wanted or what he felt when he stared like an idiot at Louis’s chest but he was too tired and his head hurt and maybe nothing was wrong with him but the situation he had put himself in. Louis did not try to drag Harry from his bed and he was glad; after a moment Louis stood and closed the curtains and plunged the room into total darkness. With the lights out it was easier to pretend that maybe this was all something imaginary and that the questions haunting Harry were ones he would never have to answer. Louis was good and he let Harry sleep and the last thing he heard before exhaustion overtook him was the sound of Louis pulling his clothes back on and slipping into his shoes and closing the door behind him.


	6. Chapter 6

Harry awoke utterly alone. It was day two of their two days off and his brain was still catching up and he scrambled for the alarm clock by his bed to read 12:36 P.M. He groaned, dropping his head back onto his pillows, and the bed was the most glorious thing he had ever felt and he never wanted to get up. Maybe he should stay in bed and watch shitty TV and order room service with shitty champagne; the idea of never leaving this bed was tempting. Until the bathroom door clicked open and with a gust of hot steam Louis stumbled from the shower. 

“Good morning, sunshine,” Louis said, and Harry’s eyes wandered to the towel slung haphazardly across Louis’s hips (there was a steady drip of water falling in the dip between his right hip and his stomach and from where he lay Harry could trace the way it fell along his skin). 

“Morning,” Harry managed to reply without sounding too much like he was strangled by Louis’s (beauty) tousled hair and bright eyes. 

“Any plans for today?” Louis asked, and Harry stretched out on his bed and rolled over to follow Louis with his eyes as he crossed the room and sat on his own bed. 

“No,” Harry shrugged. “You?”

“Not yet,” Louis smiled. 

“Why?” Harry asked. “You want me to take you somewhere?” He had no idea what Louis liked, not really, and the realization made him want to shake the tiredness from his head and take Louis wherever he wanted to go. 

“Yeah,” Louis said, using both hands to brush his hair back and smooth it down at the nape of his neck. He looked good. He looked well rested and warm and Harry almost wanted to ask him to stay in the room with him all day and do nothing else but lay still and learn about each other. But Louis was bright and he was ready to go and it was his first time somewhere new in a long time, after all, and Harry figured he owed him a little bit of sightseeing. “What do you have in mind?”

“Ugh.” Harry face planted back on his white stack of pillows, only half feigning exhaustion overtaking him, and Louis laughed and said,

“Good, don’t look while I get dressed. And then you better get your ass up.” 

(Why would I look? There is no reason for me to look but maybe that would be fucking okay if I wanted to but I don’t and maybe that’s okay.)

“Yeah, yeah.” Harry heard the thump of Louis’s towel hitting the carpet and Louis tossed clothes on his bed in search of whatever clothes he wanted to throw on. It was even colder in London than it was back home, the sound of rain still pounding the window of their room, and Harry knew Louis didn’t have a winter coat. Maybe that was what he would do today; take Louis shopping. He deserved something nice and that was something stupid and something simple Harry could give to him.

“What are the guys doing today?” Harry asked as he listened to Louis slip into his sneakers. 

“You can look at me now,” Louis laughed, and so he did. He turned his head and took in Louis’s familiar Rolling Stones shirt and the perfect tousle of his hair. “Hi,” he said. 

“Hi,” Harry replied. 

“I haven’t spoken to anyone today,” Louis said in reply to Harry’s question. “I haven’t since we arrived, even.” He shrugged as if it was no big deal but it was to Harry and he felt a pang where his heart beat in his chest at the realization that his bandmates slipped farther and farther from his grasp every damn day. 

“Me either,” Harry said, and he rose up on one elbow and rested his head on his fist. 

“You finally look alive,” Louis said, a smile dancing on his rosy lips. “Not like a zombie.” Harry assessed himself and decided he felt alive today, more so than he had back at home and back on the airplane. 

“Thanks,” Harry replied. Louis sat quietly for five whole seconds before grinning madly and urging Harry to please get out of bed so they could go exploring. “You could go without me,” Harry grumbled, the bed far too warm to contemplate leaving as he peered out the window and could see nothing but a sheet of rain. 

“Harry, I have to admit that I like having you with me a lot better than I like being alone.”

Harry thought for a beat before replying, “Me too.” 

Was that all right? 

Louis was all smiles and Harry was (smitten) a sucker for the fucking grin he wore and before he knew it he was out of bed and searching the carpet for the wool coat he had tossed aside the other night. He found it by his bed and it was still a little damp from the rain but that was all right. Louis busied himself with the coffeemaker on the granite counter by the door of their hotel room. Harry couldn’t keep the idiotic smile off his face as he watched Louis struggle with the machine and when Louis threw his hands up in defeat the smile turned into laughter.

“Let me help you.” Louis stepped back and let Harry take over, an idiotic smile of his own on his lips. 

“Go on then, you try and figure it out,” Louis teased. Harry pressed two buttons and the machine whirred into life, hot coffee pouring into the paper cup Louis had stuck under the spout. “Fuck off,” Louis said in reply, but his words were not meant to sting and Harry knew that. He was about to turn around and walk away and change into new clothes but then Louis was at his back, pressing his forehead to Harry’s shoulder blade. Maybe that was all right but still Harry stiffened, perfectly still as Louis raised his arms and wrapped them tight around Harry’s middle. This was new and this was (not) okay and Harry had no idea what to do but freeze, one hand on the coffeemaker and the other on the cold stone of the countertop. The machine whirred again as the cup filled to the top and Harry didn’t move a muscle. Louis was warm, so fucking warm, pressed against Harry’s back, and maybe this was all wrong and maybe Harry should run away before it was too late. Maybe Louis was just as lost as Harry, Harry realizing with a pang that not once had he stopped to wonder if Louis even wanted more than friendship out of him. Maybe he was just somebody who craved touch, who took comfort in warm skin, and who was Harry to assume it meant something more?

(It was already too late to run, who was he kidding?)

“What are you doing?” Harry asked before his brain could command his big mouth to stay shut. 

“Nothing,” Louis replied, and Harry (loved) hated the way his shoulder muffled Louis’s voice. “You’re scared of me.”

“I’m not,” Harry tried, but Louis was smart and he knew better. How did he know so well when Harry told a lie?

“You are.” Louis unwound his arms from around Harry and he pulled back and said, “But that’s okay.” So he felt it, too, the overwhelming feeling that all the wrong feelings just might be all right. Harry used the counter to hold himself up because he thought without the support he might just collapse. “Harry, it’s okay,” Louis said again. “Want to know something about me?”

“What?” Harry managed to groan. 

“I don’t ever cry.”

“Lou…” (He did on the plane; he fucking did, and it was Harry’s fault.)

“I don’t ever cry. But here’s the thing, Haz.” Louis maneuvered around Harry to take the coffee cup from the machine and slap a top on it, opening up the lid to blow cool air into the steaming cup. 

“What?” Harry asked again. 

“Everybody lies.” 

 

Harry took a shower and shook his hair out in the bathroom and soaked the mirror. He yanked on clean jeans and a clean T-shirt and he pulled on and buttoned up his gray wool coat. His hair was a mess and there was no saving it (maybe he would ask Eleanor to cut it for him before a show some night; she was good at that sort of thing and she had made a snide comment or two about the length of his hair the past few weeks) but he brushed it back anyway and then brushed it forward again to try and mask the deepness of the circles under his eyes. 

(Maybe he just needed a drink; sobriety was hard to cling to and he thought he looked better with something brutal and 100 proof in his system.)

But Louis was restless and he wanted to go and Harry took one last look at the frightening paleness of his face and he let Louis lead the way downstairs to the hotel lobby. Harry had not seen anyone from the band or from the crew since the day before and he didn’t really care where they were; let them fall where they may. They would all have to return to the hotel tonight, anyway, for one more night of rest before the first of the London shows. 

Harry borrowed a huge black umbrella from the front desk and opened it up in the lobby, Louis slapping a hand over his mouth to hide the giggle caused by the employee Harry nearly bowled over as she dodged out of Harry’s way. 

“Sorry!” Harry said, only making Louis double over with laughter, and he looked so good as he laughed that making him laugh was all Harry ever wanted to do. “Come on, crazy boy,” Harry said, and Louis grinned madly and followed Harry out the door. Harry slung the umbrella over his head and Louis stepped close to his side to share the shelter with him. 

“Wow,” Louis breathed as the icy rain pelted the ground all around them. “It’s a little chilly.” Harry laughed at the understatement, his breath escaping him like smoke, and Louis tucked himself into Harry’s side and it was all right that he wrapped one arm around Harry, one hand curling into the fabric of his coat and the other hand cupped around his mouth to try and keep it warm. “I need mittens in this place if I want to go home with both hands,” Louis complained. He danced on the spot and Harry had to bob with him to keep the umbrella steady over both their heads as he raised one arm to hail one of the drab black taxis driving the busy road in front of the hotel. 

“Where are we going?” Louis asked as a cab pulled up in front of them. Harry did not reply. Instead he asked the driver to take them to the closest shopping mall and the man nodded and pulled away from the curb. “You’re taking me shopping?” Louis asked as Harry fought to close his umbrella in the cramped back of the taxi. He got doused in rainwater as he finally got it closed but that was all right. Inside the taxi it was warm, heat blasting from all sides, and Louis sat far closer than he had to and that was all right, too. 

“Yes,” Harry replied. “I am.” He watched the rain as they rode towards their destination; it pelted the car and thumped wildly on the roof. All around them people walked and ran and drove in every direction. This city was chaos, crazier by far than New York City, and Harry had the feeling this was not a city he was meant to survive. He imagined arriving in his hotel room, exhausted and drunk, and falling asleep on his back and puking in his sleep. He thought of dying in a hotel room and being carted out on a gurney with a sheet over his goddamn head and he wondered if that was where he was destined to be. The end he feared seemed farther away now but it still hung over him like a shadow; maybe with Louis at his side slowly the feeling of running away from death would go away.

Harry didn’t know what it was about the rain that brought out the darkness in him. Angry weather brought angry thoughts, he supposed, and angry thoughts turned into angrier songs. Maybe now it was time to stop writing in the rain and only take out his pen at the sight of the sun. 

(Louis may as well have been the sun for the way he made every fucking moment exponentially brighter.)

Was that okay?

The cab pulled to a stop before a massive mall in drab off white and Harry handed the driver a wad of bills (courtesy of Sophia, who had nearly forgotten to exchange their money and hand out allowances but she remembered in the end and gave everyone a stern talking-to regarding exactly how much they could spend) and told him he could keep the change. Harry struggled to climb out of the taxi and unfurl the umbrella again before Louis could open his own door; when Harry opened the door for him with the umbrella ready, Louis’s smile was blinding. 

“Thanks, babe,” Louis said, and no one had ever called Harry that before (girls favored baby and Harry hated being called that) and he had no idea how to react. He closed the cab door and he held the umbrella in one hand and beckoned Louis to follow him with the other. Louis obeyed. He always did. Harry slipped on the steps leading up to the front door of the mall and Louis followed suit, the two of them getting their legs tangled together and nearly tumbling to the pavement. Louis laughed and Harry laughed and they managed to stay upright and climb the steps and step inside the mall. In this aspect London was no different from home; people bustled all around and there were brightly colored store fronts as far as Harry could see. It was warm inside and Harry tucked the sopping umbrella into the pocket of his coat. 

“I love London,” Louis said as he craned his neck to gaze open mouthed at the chandeliers high above them on the ceiling. 

“This is hardly London,” Harry said, feeling a little guilty for not giving Louis something special and different and cultural like he probably wanted, but Louis seemed happy enough to simply stand by Harry’s side and that was all that really mattered. 

“Whatever,” Louis said. “I love it just the same.” He dragged his eyes from the ceiling and looked to Harry with excitement lighting up his face. “So,” he said, “where are you taking me?” 

 

Harry told Louis he was going to get sick wandering icy London without a coat and he told Louis he wanted to buy him one. He assured Louis the sky was the limit but Louis was sheepish and he tried on cheap imitation leather and itchy cotton wool. It wasn’t until Harry stopped trying to get him to choose something a little more expensive and watched where his eyes wandered instead that he finally figured out what Louis wanted. He craned his neck to stare longingly at a coat in a display window as they walked by and when he tried to keep walking Harry stopped to look. Louis doubled back and caught Harry looking, his cheeks going red, and he said,

“Harry, no.” He took Harry’s wrist in his hand and tried to tug him and he looked damn good with bright pink patches painting his delicate cheekbones and it was okay that Harry let the thought cross his mind, wasn’t it? 

“Yes,” Harry said, and without checking to see if Louis was still at his heels he stepped into the store. 

“Good afternoon,” a woman with the still unfamiliar accent of London on her tongue said as she made her way to the front of the store. “How can I help you?” 

Louis said, “No,” from somewhere behind Harry, urgency in his voice, but it was too late. Harry was a lot of things and stubbornness was his specialty and he told the woman he wanted to see the winter coat in the window. 

“Of course,” the woman said, her face lighting up, and when Louis tugged at Harry’s sleeve he turned to look at him. 

“No, Haz,” Louis said. He looked stricken, cheeks rosy, and Harry wanted to tell him everything was all right but he doubted Louis would believe him. Louis was a lot of things and it grew apparent that prideful topped the list. For whatever reason Louis wanted nothing to do with Harry’s money and it baffled him as the woman came bustling back with the coat slung carefully over one arm. 

“We just got this in last week,” the woman said as she held it out to Harry. 

“Not me,” Harry said even as Louis shook his head hard enough to cause his hair to flop over his face. “He’d like to try it on.” The woman turned to Louis and still he shook his head but Harry said, “He’s just shy. Sling it on him.” The woman laughed and Louis tossed a look to Harry that either said, “Help me” or “I’m going to kill you”; it was hard to read. 

“It will look good on you,” the woman said, eying Louis with a smile on her face. “Come here.” She took his arm and Louis threw another look to Harry over his shoulder and Harry followed the two of them to a full length mirror in the back of the store. “Once you see how good it looks you’ll never want to take it off,” she assured Louis. “Go on then, arms up.” Louis did as he was told and the woman slipped the coat over Louis’s arms and she stepped in front of him to button it up and when she stepped back to admire the effect, Louis’s face contorted to hide the smile he almost let escape. 

The woman was right; he looked good, and Harry was not going to take no for an answer and he was not going to let Louis leave the store without this coat. The coat fell to Louis’s thighs in heavy, deep red wool, the double row of big black buttons in the middle cinching his waist and showing off the build of Louis’s body. The oversized collar fell open on both sides to Louis’s shoulders and looking like he had no idea he was doing it, Louis twisted his hips back and forth to admire the shape of the coat in the mirror. He caught Harry’s eye, though, and his smile fell and the blush on his cheeks deepened to match the color of the coat he admired. 

“Ugh,” Louis sighed, his shoulders sagging. “Get this off me.” He struggled with the buttons on the coat and the woman looked alarmed at the tremor in his voice and Harry said to her, 

“We’ll take it.”

“Harry, no,” Louis said, but his stubbornness was no match for Harry’s. 

“Yes,” he said. “Don’t even take it off. Let’s go.” Louis was good and he wanted to obey but he was embarrassed and nonplussed by Harry and the woman from the shop was just as baffled as Louis was as Harry led her to the register and pulled the leather wallet (also courtesy of Sophia, but as a birthday gift six years ago) from his back pocket and shuffled money over to the woman before Louis could see. 

“Harry!” Louis scolded, having followed Harry to the register with the coat half unbuttoned, and Harry ignored him. Louis twisted his hips to try and reach the price tag hanging off the back of the coat but Harry snatched it off and passed it to the woman, blocking the register with his body as she handed him his change. 

“Enjoy!” the woman said to Louis, breaking into a laugh at the sight of his anguished face. “Don’t be so upset, love!” she said as Louis began to look like he might be sick. “The coat was made for you. And clearly someone loves you to buy it for you!”

(Maybe that was okay but if it was why did Harry’s heart stop at the thought?) Harry froze and so did Louis and before Harry knew it Louis was shoving him with one arm from the store and out into the great big world of the shopping mall. 

(That word was not a word Harry ever used, not ever. What was he thinking?!)

“I want to go back to the hotel,” Louis said, and Harry had no idea what to say to make Louis stop scowling but he let Louis lead him back out into the rain. Louis pulled the black umbrella from Harry’s coat and opened it up and he threw one arm to the side and a moment later a cab met them at the curb. In silence they rode back to the hotel and Harry’s heart danced wildly in his chest, rising up his throat, and he had no idea what to do but Louis looked as stormy as the sky and maybe Harry went too far and pushed too much and pushed Louis over the edge. 

(He had to fix this; he wanted to leap from the car and run away instead of sit beside Louis for another agonizing moment.)

At the hotel Louis was sullen as Harry paid for the ride and thanked the driver and climbed out of the cab. Louis followed him and together they stepped back into the hotel and immediately they were ambushed by a breathless Sophia. 

“There you are!” she cried. “I was looking everywhere for you; don’t you have a phone?”

“Sorry, Soph,” was all Harry could say. He had left his phone on his bed upstairs, content with the thought of no one being able to reach him. And he had made her angry by doing so and he was only a little bit sorry but that didn’t matter much. “What do you want?” Louis was restless at his side and Harry wanted more than anything to ask him what the hell his problem was but he couldn’t. 

“I just wanted to tell you that there’s an event tonight,” she said. “And we just got invited. It’s a party in the ballroom just down the hall tonight.”

“Oh, Soph,” Harry tried. He couldn’t do parties, not now. He wouldn’t be able to bear it, a room full of booze and drugs he would want desperately to touch and draw to his lips. Not now. He wouldn’t survive. But Sophia shook her head and she said,

“Don’t whine at me. It’s being put on by the record company and they want all of you there. There’s going to be big names there, Haz, can’t you just show up and smile for an hour or two? For me?” She wrapped both her warm hands around one of his icy ones and smiled imploringly up at him. He couldn’t. No way. That was asking far too much of him (unless she wanted something terrible to happen, unless she wanted to see him fall) and he would rather run away and pretend none of this was real than show up at some bullshit, drug fueled party thrown by the asinine CEO Harry had only met a handful of times. He wasn’t even sure if he would recognize the head of Red Hand Records if he was face to face with the woman. 

He wouldn’t do this. He couldn’t. But Sophia pleaded and Harry was tired and spent and he found himself giving her a feeble nod and she squealed with happiness and told him to be in the lobby to meet the rest of them promptly at eight o’clock. 

“Right,” Harry said, and Sophia bounced away and Louis strode to the elevator and stepped inside and Harry was close behind him but still the door almost closed in on him as he shoved inside to stand by Louis. Harry was not good at conversation and he was even worse at accusation and he had no idea what happened to make Louis angry and anger was not a look Harry liked to see on him. They rode in silence upstairs and Louis pulled his room key from his jeans and let them in and the door slammed behind Harry and all at once Louis whirled on him and stared angrily enough to make Harry shrink back. 

“What?” Harry pleaded, shocked to hear his voice come out a whimper. “What happened?” It was hot in the room, stifling, and Harry sweat beneath his winter coat and he watched Louis peel off his. Louis held the coat in one hand, the collar bunched up in his fist, and he spoke as if he was trying everything he had to keep from crying. 

“Harry, what are we doing?” Louis said as if Harry had any fucking idea. Before Harry even finished asking, 

“What do you mean?” Louis’s face crumpled and he said, 

“You know exactly what I mean.” 

(This all happened far too fast and Harry was scared and Louis was scary and Harry was stupid for thinking he couldn’t possibly break Louis’s heart.)

“Lou…”

“Harry, are you playing with me? Are you testing me? Who do you think you are, buying this for me and telling me I look good and jerking me around?” 

(Harry was not good at fighting and he hated the way Louis’s face twisted in pain and how did he let this happen?)

Harry grasped at straws and he knew what would hurt and he said it because he was poison and it was about time Louis knew. “You’re the one who ran away at the word love.”

The silence that followed the accusation was loud enough to deafen Harry. Louis looked at him, mouth open, and Harry looked back and prayed he hadn’t ruined everything. Whatever this was, whatever they were, he (wanted) needed it and he was not about to let Louis run away from him now. Whatever Louis wanted was his. He had Harry completely whether he knew it or not and if this was what heartbreak really felt like Harry had never felt it before. 

“If I ran away the first time I thought of love,” Louis said, voice so low Harry could barely hear him over the whirring of the heating unit in the wall and the rain pounding relentlessly outside, “I would have never sat down and gotten your fucking lyrics inked on me. You’re so fucking stupid, Haz, if you think I would run away at the thought of love.” He spat the word and his knuckles were white on the red coat and he blinked fast and looked down at his sneakers on the carpet. “I don’t run away,” Louis told the floor. “I don’t. I told you I was all in and I told you I won’t ever run from you and still you’re so fucking scared of losing whatever this is to even listen to me. So…” He paused. Harry stood frozen and he waited for the blow of the goodbye that was about to spill from Louis’s lips. He braced himself and he knew he wouldn’t fucking survive but whatever Louis wanted was his and if he wanted nothing more to do with Harry, what could he do? 

“What?” Harry said when the goodbye did not come. “So? Tell me, Lou, spit it out.” Louis jerked his head up, jaw clenched tight as his fists, and he said, 

“Tell me you don’t want me to run. Tell me that I’m not crazy and that there is a part of you that cares about me and isn’t scared to say it. Tell me now or it’s over.” 

(He was crazy to think there wasn’t a single part of Harry that didn’t want him to stay; what was wrong with him?)

“Stay,” Harry said. “Fuck, Lou, stay.” He stumbled over his words and Louis was so (beautiful) still as he stood by Harry’s bed and clutched at his coat and Harry had no idea what caused him to be so afraid but there it was and there they were and this was crazy but Harry needed Louis to stay and it didn’t matter why. 

“Don’t be scared of me, Haz,” Louis said. “I’m begging you, Haz, I’m fucking begging you, because I’m an idiot and I let myself get too deep in and there’s no fucking getting out. Didn’t I tell you that, Haz? I told you I would never want out. And I don’t know what to say to you to make you stop being afraid of me. What can I say to make you brave, Haz? Tell me and I’ll do it. You have to let me in sometime.”

Harry was broken and he always spoke better in song than he did with his words and he closed the distance between them and in one moment Louis was pulling in a breath to fight him and in the next it wooshed out of him as Harry threw his arms around the smaller boy and pulled him into a hug. 

“Haz,” Louis squeaked, but Harry ignored him. He squeezed Louis, his arms around Louis’s middle like Louis’s had been around Harry just that morning and it took Louis a long time to hug him back but then his arms were around Harry and they stood together in the middle of the room and it didn’t matter why. 

(Don’t be upset with me, Lou, I told you I was broken.)

It was a stupid, simple thing but it was all Harry had. He hugged Louis with everything he had and tried to put everything he couldn’t say into the embrace (I may be stupid but I may just fall in love with you) and it was okay to think such a crazy thing because Louis was going to be at his side through it all. He was not going to run away and neither was Harry and maybe this would be okay. 

When Harry drew back Louis looked away and he tried to hide it but Harry could see the tears on his cheeks. 

“Don’t cry,” Harry said, but Louis said,

“I don’t ever cry.” 

“I forgot,” Harry replied. 

“The moment you stop being afraid,” Louis choked as he wiped at his face with the back of his arm, “I’ll stop crying.”

“I’m not afraid,” Harry said even though he was and Louis shrugged and there was a ghost of a smile on his face as he said,

“Then I’m not crying.” 

And all at once Harry needed to hear everything about Louis; he needed to know his life story and what it was that made him the brave, relentless person he was. And he asked it of him, begging for lack of a better word, and he asked Louis, “Tell me the story of your life.”

“The story of my life?” Louis asked as he brushed away the last of his tears. He grinned devilishly, teeth flashing, and he said, “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.” 

Harry pretended his heart did not stop at the thought of sharing secrets with Louis, a perfect goddamn stranger. 

“Deal,” he said, and it was all over. He was split open, ripping apart at the seams for Louis to see all the things that filled him up, and before Harry knew it he had sunk onto his bed and pulled Louis beside him, their knees touching, as he prodded Louis to go first with the promise of sharing second. 

“I don’t have some deep dark secret,” Louis said, his sleeves damp from the tears he had mopped away. “I didn’t have a fucked up childhood and I don’t have some grand thing that changed my life and made me how I am. And I sure as hell am not some broken bird that you need to fix.”

“I know that,” Harry said, the truth coming easy. Again a smile ghosted over Louis’s lips and he sighed, moving his leg just enough to make Harry miss the warmth. 

“What do you want to know?” Louis asked. “Ask me. And then I’ll ask you. Deal?”

“Deal,” Harry said again. And he asked the question that had been burning in the back of his mind since the day he had met Louis. “How did you end up in New York City all alone?” 

For half a second Louis looked like he didn’t want to answer, but it was so fast that Harry thought he might have imagined it. And when he did answer he made damn sure he looked Harry straight in the eye. “Haz,” he said, and Harry wanted to look away at the nickname and the way Louis tasted it on his tongue. “My parents didn’t kick me out; I chose to leave. Because they didn’t like that I was gay. So I fucking left, rather than continuing to be a burden to them like they always kind of hinted.”

As he fell silent Harry tried not to let his panic flash across his face. The admission should not have shocked him; Louis liked the way Harry looked at him and he touched him like he wanted more, but Harry was scared out of his mind and he thought if he moved it would be to run to the bathroom to throw up. Because if Louis was…if Louis was gay, what did that make Harry if he loved him? 

“Show me yours,” Louis commanded as if he had not just sent the world crashing down around Harry’s shoulders, and Harry did his best to keep the lump in his throat down. 

“A speedball was the first drug I ever had,” Harry replied, his voice sliding all over the place. He was scared and Louis’s face was so open and Harry let the words fall from him because he did not have a choice. “Someone, I don’t even remember who, came up to me at a party and said, they said, ‘Hey, you know the drug that killed River Phoenix?’ and I said, ‘Yeah, yeah, I do,’ and they said to me, ‘Try some’. And I did. I was seventeen, barely, and after that there was no going back.” He swallowed and he watched Louis’s throat move as he aped the motion, watching Harry with an unreadable expression on his face. “Show me…show me yours,” Harry reminded him to get Louis to stop looking at him like he was regretting falling into him.

“I’ve never loved anyone more than I love you,” Louis said, and Harry’s heart slammed to a stop in his chest and Louis choked out a laugh at the look of horror that must have crossed his face. “I mean the you I knew before I knew you. The Harry Styles who wrote the songs that made me feel hope. Show me yours.”

“I had real shitty parents, too,” Harry admitted aloud for the first time in seven years. “I ran away from them, too. They didn’t think I was going to amount to anything. And I guess they were right; fame is nothing much. Show me yours.”

“I was so desperate for money just this once that I let my coworkers pay me to eat a cockroach they found in the kitchen,” Louis said, and he began to laugh as the tension eased from the curves of his body. His knee found Harry’s again and Harry was trembling, his stomach churning, but he was not going to pull away. He was not. “Show me yours.”

“That’s revolting,” Harry said instead of replying, and Louis socked him on the arm and barked a high laugh to the ceiling. 

“Show me yours!” Louis snapped in reply.

“I’ve taken shots out of Zayn’s belly button,” Harry said, making Louis laugh even harder. “More than once.” And it was okay, the things they had begun to learn, and Harry would give anything to sit here forever and learn more. 

“I would pay to see that,” Louis said, and Harry tried to contain the shaking of his limbs. He was broken and Louis was not, completely whole after the way he brushed off his teenage years, and another day Harry would beg for a moment by moment story of every day of Louis’s life. But for now Louis was laughing and he leaned hard on Harry’s shoulder, his hair tickling Harry’s chin. Once he began to laugh there was no stopping him, Harry was delighted to learn, and who was Harry to put labels on things, anyway? He let it go; he let it roll off him for the time being. Because Louis was warm and Louis was light and Harry let him laugh until he cried, shaking on Harry’s shoulder, and it was okay that maybe neither one of them were meant to be okay.

 

Maybe it was okay to pass the time in a corner of the universe only occupied by Harry and Louis but Sophia rapped at their door when they were late coming down to the lobby and she barked that they better get their asses downstairs before she made them. 

“Should we go?” Louis said, and it was the last thing Harry wanted to do (he wanted to stay right here in his room and share Louis with no one) but he knew there was no escaping Sophia and he groaned as Harry nodded. 

“Let’s get it over with,” Harry said. He rose from the bed he and Louis played cards on, leaving the stacks of cards on the comforter and stretching to get the feeling back in his legs. Louis looked damn good as he looked up at Harry and fear tugged hard at his heart but what did he have to be afraid of, anyway? Harry checked himself in the mirror and raked back his curls with one hand and Louis stood behind him mussing with his own hair and smoothing down the hem of his wrinkled baseball shirt. 

“Do I look like I’ll fit in at a party full of big music hotshots?” Louis teased, and even though he joked Harry nodded. 

“You’ll be the best looking one there.” That was okay. He could say that simply because it was true and it didn’t matter the meaning behind the words because they made Louis smile. Together they made their way to the lobby and maybe together was just the way they were meant to be. Sophia greeted them, dressed up in a shining pink silk dress that fell to her knees, and when Harry asked her if they were underdressed she shook her head and assured him she overdressed just in case someone important was there she itched to impress. 

“Get in there,” she said, pointing towards the ballroom full of dimmed lights and pounding music. “The guys are waiting for you.” She nudged them when they didn’t move, one hand at the small of Louis’s back and one at Harry ’s. “Go!” she urged. She followed behind them as reluctantly they obeyed, and the moment they stepped into the room she disappeared to mingle with people Harry couldn’t have recognized if he tried. 

“Haz!” Niall crowed as he caught sight of him. “Where have you been, man?”

“In the damn hotel, where have you been?” Harry replied. Niall laughed and he shoved a drink into Harry’s hands and Harry knew he meant well, probably thinking something along the lines of now that Harry was no longer alone he could handle a drink at a stupid party. But it wasn’t true. Harry was broken and he almost broke Louis and he couldn’t do it. He wouldn’t. Harry passed the drink to Louis and with a shrug Louis threw it down in three long gulps. He dropped the cup with a grimace, wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand, and he asked Niall what the hell that was.

“Should have warned you,” Niall said. “There is not enough booze here and I might have poured just a little too much rum into the punch.” He shrugged; he was already drunk and he thought it was funny but Harry winced at the smell of alcohol coming from Niall and from Liam who stood laughing at his side. Niall’s tongue was stained red from the fruit punch and Harry thought for a moment about punching him but he didn’t. Niall was good and he was happy go lucky and he had every right to have a good time. 

“Have a nice time, Niall,” Harry said, clapping a hand on Niall’s shoulder, and Niall nodded and laughed as Harry walked away. Harry caught sight of Zayn dancing with both arms around Perrie and Zayn was definitely stupendously drunk. He wavered on the dance floor, leaning on the tiny girl, and Harry never knew how it looked to be on the outside looking in. Sobriety was totally new to him and he wasn’t sure if it scared him or elated him the difference it made. 

In the corner of the ballroom Eleanor and Nick danced together and gabbed with a man in a suit Harry didn’t recognize. He said his name twice but the music was too loud and Harry only pretended to hear. The man called over a woman in a smart black and white uniform and ordered three gin and tonics: one for himself and one each for Harry and Louis. Again Harry passed off his drink to Louis and he gulped down Harry’s and then sipped at his own. Pink spots rose up on Louis’s cheeks, the color deepening closer to red with every drink he swallowed down. It didn’t bother Harry that Louis accepted every drink handed to him; it was an intoxicating atmosphere, this party, and Harry understood the temptation to be liked by everyone in the room. He had been there a thousand times before (the night The Troves were signed and the night they began their first tour and the night they signed a contract for three years of tours all over the world) and it was unbelievable to Harry that approval was no longer something he craved. 

(Except for Louis; he made sure Louis stayed by his side and looked at him whenever Harry asked it of him; Louis was his and no one else’s and every smile Louis gave him was a miracle.)

It was barely ten o’clock when Harry realized just how drunk Louis was. He stumbled by Harry’s side, tripping over Harry’s sneakers and his own, and he leaned heavy on Harry and breathed nonsense into his ear when he thought no one was looking. 

“Take me to bed,” Louis groaned at Harry’s side. He was red faced and slurring and he still looked damn good but he was a mess, his eyes wide. “I’m tired,” he said. “I’m fucking tired; let’s go to bed.” Harry slung an arm around Louis’s shoulders to steady him and Louis leaned gratefully into Harry’s chest. 

“In a minute, okay?” Harry assured him. “Relax, the night is young.”

“Yeah,” Louis slurred, “but I’m old and I want to go to bed.” He was a beautiful drunk, clingy and warm, and the hair tucked under the collar of his shirt was damp from sweat and Harry felt a strange yearning in his guts that made no sense at all. He wanted to (kiss him) get him out of here where no one else got to take in the wild beauty of him. Maybe going back to their room upstairs was the best thing to do. 

“Okay,” Harry said. He took Louis by the hand and Louis babbled about how he loved London as Harry weaved his way through the crowd. Louis stepped on the backs of Harry’s shoes and nearly sent him sprawling but Harry caught himself and told Louis to be more careful and Louis was a graceless drunk but he obeyed. Harry knew the song that pounded through the ballroom; it was an old song by the Rolling Stones, and Louis hummed along with every word. 

“You want to know a secret, Haz?” Louis asked. (His voice was damn sexy as he rasped, husky from the alcohol in his system.) 

“Not really, no.” He had heard enough today and he did not want to hear too much, Louis spilling things from quirked up lips. Harry waved goodnight to Niall as they walked by and Niall tried to call him back to continue the party but Harry ignored him. Jeff shoved a drink in Harry’s hand as he walked by and Harry tried to dump it on one of the ridiculous blue orchids by the door but Louis took it from him and pounded the drink in one gulp. 

“Mmm,” Louis beamed, sheepish as a kid caught stealing booze from his parents, and Harry snatched the empty glass from him and dropped it on the tray of an employee walking by. 

“Wait,” Louis said as they neared the ornate mahogany doors separating them from the quiet and sanity of the lobby. 

“What?” Harry tugged, Louis’s hand slick in his, and Louis took two stumbling steps towards Harry and laughed as he tripped. 

“I lost my virginity to this song,” Louis laughed, and he pressed his free hand not clasped in Harry’s to rub at the stubble on his cheeks as he closed his eyes in mirth. “Jesus, it was so long ago.” 

“To Paint it Black?” Harry teased. “Are you serious?”

“I was seventeen,” Louis shrugged. “What did you listen to at seventeen?”

“Mostly my own garbage,” Harry replied. Finally, sweaty and panting, the two of them emerged from the ballroom and spilled into the brightly lit lobby. The difference was jarring and Harry blinked in the sudden rush of harsh light. 

“Haz, your music isn’t garbage,” Louis said, so solemn Harry had to laugh as he jabbed at the button for the elevator. 

“Shut up,” he said. They fell into the elevator and Louis hit the wrong button with his hip and they spent three minutes rising to the top of the hotel only to ride it almost all the way back down. 

“Sorry,” Louis said. “I’m sorry, I’m drunk.”

“A blind man could see that.” Louis’s attempt to get his room key from his jeans was useless and Harry pulled out his, flicking on the lights in the room and closing the door behind them. They had left the curtains open when they left and lights from the streetlamps and headlights outside poured in through the window. 

“Turn the lights out,” Louis ordered. “The light hurts my eyes.” He tripped over a pile of his clothes in the middle of the floor and went sprawling on all fours as Harry turned the lights off again and slipped out of his shoes. 

“You okay?” 

“Fine!” Louis climbed onto his bed and then he changed his mind, the shadow of him standing up on wobbly legs and collapsing in a heap on Harry’s bed instead. That was all right, he could sleep there for the night. Harry wasn’t tired anyway, the party still fresh in his mind, and he figured he could turn the TV on low to distract himself until morning. But Louis rolled onto his back and kicked off his shoes and unbuckled his belt and lay there with his limbs everywhere like that was okay and it didn’t matter. 

“Come here,” Louis slurred, and he gestured towards the bed and Harry stayed exactly where he was because what gave Louis the right to invite him to his own damn bed?

“Go to sleep,” Harry ordered in reply. Drunk and wild, Louis shook his head. His face was cast in an orange glow from the lights outside and Harry could see the slope of his nose but not much else. 

“No,” Louis said. “Come to bed with me.” Instead Harry sat down hard on Louis’s empty bed and tried to cast from his mind the thoughts of what would happen if he were to obey. 

(That was wrong, that was wrong. Whatever they were it was not within Harry’s right to figure it out while Louis was drunk in his bed.)

“Louis, hey, go to sleep. We’ll talk in the morning.”

“Harry Styles, we are going to talk right now.”

(Louis was crazy and he was, too, and this made no sense but there was heat in the air and Harry had no idea what that meant.)

“I don’t think so,” Harry wavered. 

“Haz, don’t sit there and…and pretend that you don’t want to fucking kiss me.” Louis was drunk but Louis was brave and now it was out there and there was no taking it back and maybe Harry was stupid but he wanted desperately to be all in and maybe he should give in and let Louis take him there. 

“Lou…”

“Say my name again. I fucking love it.”

(Louis was a lusty drunk, his fingers in the waistband of his jeans, and Harry felt hot as he tried his best to look anywhere but there.)

“Louis…”

“Yeah…” Louis’s shirt rode up around his hips and every exposed inch of skin made Harry want to stand up and run away but he couldn’t fucking do that because Louis was delicate and Louis was going to break. 

“Louis, please go to sleep.” Harry was not above begging because Louis was driving him mad (in the worst way and the best way) and he wanted to throw a punch at the wall to get the whirring in his head to stop. (Since when did boys make his head spin? He was Harry fucking Styles and the girls loved him. Didn’t he love them back? But it wasn’t boys who drove him crazy. It was Louis, just Louis.)

“Not until you listen to me,” Louis said. 

“I am listening to you.”

“You’re listening but you don’t hear me.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” 

(This was too much, Louis was too much, and Harry should get out of here and beg Sophia to send Louis home because that was all he wanted.)

“Hazza, Harry, Haz,” Louis sang to the ceiling. “Harry, aren’t you listening? Fuck, I know I’m drunk but I know you can hear me and I fucking want you to kiss me.” Maybe Harry wanted it too but he wanted a lot of things and a drink topped the fucking list. 

(He would find the taste of it on Louis’s tongue.)

“Go to sleep.” It was all he could say and it was all he could think and he was going to flee from the room if Louis didn’t stop sighing like he was in pain. (Because he felt it, too, the yearning that he couldn’t shake.)

“Kiss me.” 

(He wanted to, he wanted to.)

“Try me when you’re sober.”

“I’m afraid of you when I’m sober. You’re afraid of me when I’m sober.”

He was right but this was all wrong and Harry ran his hands through his hair and buried his face in his palms and his cheeks were hot and his shirt stuck to him from the sweat on his back and why did (loving) wanting Louis have to make everything so goddamn hard? 

“Please,” Louis breathed, and it was over. Harry gave in. With a groan that sounded like a growl Harry lunged from Louis’s bed and in the next moment he had Louis pinned to his bed by his wrists as he straddled Louis’s hips. 

“Hi,” Louis said as if any of this was normal or okay or close to either of those things, and Harry replied in a voice that sounded broken. 

“Hi,” he said, and there it was. He surged forward and he caught Louis’s lips with his own and he tasted exactly like he thought he would, like cinnamon and rum and sugar. It was crazy but there they were and Louis squirmed beneath him and he kissed Harry back like it was the end of the goddamn world and this was their very last godforsaken moment alive. Louis’s lips were soft, impossibly giving, and then Louis’s tongue found his and it was all over. 

“Fuck,” Harry whined against Louis’s lips. “Fuck.”

“Yeah,” Louis replied, and then he breathed, “Hush.” Harry could feel Louis’s heart race in his wrists as he held him tight to the bed and Louis jerked his hips and Harry gasped for air as the grace of Louis took his breath away. Louis made a soft sound in the back of his throat (a moan, a fucking moan) and Harry pulled Louis’s lower lip into his mouth and it made Louis gasp out loud when he bit down just hard enough to make him fucking feel it. 

(He tasted so fucking sweet and why had Harry waited so damn long to explore the way he moved?) 

“I fucking want you…so bad,” Louis whimpered, and the next thing that came out of Harry’s mouth was the truth. 

“I know, I know.” 

“Mmm…” Louis breathed. His hips swayed beneath Harry’s thighs and it was so fucking beautiful and Harry’s mouth began to burn at the touch of the stubble on Louis’s face. It was new and it made no fucking sense but there it was and there they were and Harry wasn’t going anywhere. “Fuck, you’re so…” Louis tried, but Harry didn’t want him to speak and Louis was going to fucking obey him. He kissed Louis hard, tasting every inch of his mouth he could find, and it wasn’t fucking enough. Together their bodies moved, the bed beginning to creak, and sweat dripped in Harry’s eyes and there were so many fucking layers of clothing between them that had to fucking go. 

It didn’t matter that Louis was drunk on shitty rum because Harry was drunk on him and it didn’t fucking matter than none of this made sense. Louis was sweet and his shirt rode up and Harry was grateful the lights were out because if he had to stare at the exposed skin of Louis’s stomach and the tattoos that decorated him there he just might fucking explode. Harry let go of Louis’s wrists and then Louis was all over him, surging forward. He wrapped both strong arms around Harry’s neck, his mouth crashing against Harry’s, and all at once Harry was sitting in his lap as they kissed, Louis’s tongue in his mouth and a thousand filthy words he never wanted to let see the light of day passing by his own tongue. 

“So,” Louis breathed between frantic kisses, “fucking…good.”

Whatever that meant, Harry felt the same. He felt the fucking same and it felt good to think it and it felt good to wrap his arms around Louis and taste the liquor on his tongue. Maybe this was too much and maybe this was all wrong but why did it make the blood surge in Harry’s body? It was all right. It was good and Louis was good and Harry fisted Louis’s hair in one hand and Louis gasped at the rough pull of Harry’s fingers. 

“Kiss me,” Louis demanded, and he tilted his head to the ceiling and he moaned so longingly as Harry mouthed hard kisses at the base of his throat that Harry thought he might catch fire. Harry kissed the soft skin at Louis’s throat, biting close to his ear, and Louis whimpered and swayed beneath Harry and Louis was so painfully different from every person Harry had ever held in his arms and he had never fucking kissed anyone like this before and maybe it was about time he found someone who made him want to. Louis whimpered as Harry sucked at his neck (that was going to leave a fucking mark but what did it matter? Everyone should fucking know that Louis was his and nothing else mattered) and Harry was going to erupt and maybe that was okay. 

“Fuck,” Louis breathed, and Harry left red marks that in the morning would be bruises and that was okay. Louis was already marked in ink that he belonged to Harry; now it would be painted in purple and red on his throat. 

This was crazy but maybe it would be all right. Louis dropped his head and he pressed his forehead to Harry’s and his eyes were closed and his lips were slick and his breath washed hot over Harry’s open mouth and before he knew it Harry was kissing him again. Louis’s lips were hungry and he made noises that were completely unfair, moans and whimpers falling from his mouth. He was fucking gorgeous and Harry had to have him and Harry’s hands found the bottom of Louis’s shirt and then it was over Louis’s head and on the floor and Harry pressed as close as he could to his bare skin. His hands roved over Louis’s shoulders and down the length of his spine and Louis was obscene as he moaned with the traces of Harry’s searching hands. 

“I fucking want you,” Louis said again, and Harry knew. He knew, he fucking knew, but he was stupid and this was new and he had no idea what to fucking do. 

“I know,” Harry said. It was a miracle he could speak at all. And then Louis pressed his hands to Harry’s chest and he shoved. Harry went sprawling and without a moment’s hesitation Louis was all over him. Louis straddled his hips and his open belt clacked against the button of Harry’s jeans until Louis grew tired of the noise and ripped it off, dropping it with a metallic clang to the floor. Louis swayed his hips and he took hold of Harry’s hands and their fingers tangled messily together. 

“You’re so…fucking…hot,” Louis whimpered, and Harry was going to come undone but maybe that was okay and maybe everything was all right. Louis breathed in gasps and whimpers as he yanked Harry’s shirt up, exposing his stomach and the top of his underwear sticking out above his jeans. “Fuck,” Louis barked. Harry arched his back off the bed and Louis pulled his shirt over his head and all at once they lay skin to skin, Louis pressing down on Harry from his chest to his thighs, and that was all right because Louis tasted so fucking sweet it was going to Harry’s head and the blood in his body pounded in the rhythm of Louis’s swaying hips. 

“Fuck,” Louis said again, and he dropped his head and pressed his lips to Harry’s chest, right where his heart pounded recklessly behind his ribs. His stubble rasped painfully on Harry’s skin as he kissed his way from his collarbone down to his chest and back again. Harry had not much to show for willpower but it was all over already and his breath hitched in his throat as he threw his head back and moaned. 

“Fuck,” Louis breathed, his tongue tracing the dip between Harry’s collarbones. “Fuck. Do it again.” He pressed his hips hard into Harry’s and he didn’t need telling twice; a whimper escaped his lips and he had never fucking whimpered like that and this could not be happening but it was and Louis gasped in reply and bit at Harry’s chest. 

“Fuck,” Louis said, his teeth on Harry’s burning skin. Right. Right. Right. It felt good, it felt so, so good to have Louis all over him, the weight of his body pressing Harry to the creaking bed, and if this was what being wrong felt like Harry wondered why he spent so much goddamn time trying to do things right. 

“Haz, you’re so…fucking…hot,” Louis said again. “Moan for me, babe, will you?” 

Anything. Anything. Harry whimpered and this time as Louis pressed his mouth to Harry’s stomach he reached out and buried one hand in Louis’s hair. 

“Ahh,” Louis groaned. Harry pulled Louis’s hair and he whimpered again, his mouth finding the hair just above Harry’s jeans and pressing hard kisses into his skin. Every single part of Harry’s body pulsed with longing and he had no idea what to do (he had never in his fucking life felt pining like this before) and then Louis was fumbling with the button of Harry’s jeans and if he was going to be anything but all in he had to say something now but it was too late and Louis’s careful fingers pushed open Harry‘s jeans. 

“Fuck,” Louis said. It was the only word he had and Harry understood; it was a beautiful fucking word and it was all Harry wanted and it didn’t matter that Louis was drunk and that he was breathing hard and rolling his hips relentlessly into Harry’s. He was beautiful and he fucking belonged to Harry and as he finally pulled down the waistband of Harry’s underwear Harry did all he could think of to do and he closed his eyes and he moaned. And Louis took him into his mouth, his tongue hot and better than anything Harry had ever felt before, and this was okay. This was okay. 

This was fine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so so sorry; I know I'm a tease, fading to black right when it gets good. Trust me, it won't happen again. In the upcoming chapters it will get good; I promise. 
> 
> Anyway, I'm ourl0veisgod on tumblr if you need me! Don't be afraid!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want to offer a serious warning before this chapter. It gets very heavy at the end and I don't want to spoil it but I want to make sure everyone is happy and comfortable as best as I can. The ending of this chapter is dark and scary and I want everyone to be careful if you are sensitive to drug use and/or suicidal thoughts/actions. 
> 
> Anyway, it has to get worse before it gets better, doesn't it?

For the first time since arriving in London Harry awoke to the sun streaming in through the window. It took him a long time to drag himself from sleep, his foggy brain whirring back to life. Louis lay sound asleep with his back to Harry and along the curve of his neck Harry could see the dark bruises he had sucked into his skin. Harry watched Louis breathe in and out for a while, admiring the ink along his exposed skin, and it was okay that Louis was in his bed and it was okay that he was naked and so was Harry and maybe it was okay that Harry’s cum stained underwear was on the floor. 

Fuck.

The memories of last night came crashing back and Harry closed his eyes against the garish sun and the ink and bruises on Louis’s skin. What was he thinking? What the fuck was wrong with him? He had gone too far and Louis had looked so fucking good with his mouth all over Harry and maybe when he woke up he would remember none of it and if that was the case Harry was going to fucking break. This could not be happening. The sun hung low outside the window, still rising in the clear blue sky. Harry should get up and get dressed and get the hell out of here before Louis woke up. He should pretend this never happened. He was Harry fucking Styles, for God’s sake, and he didn’t have much of one but he had a reputation to uphold and he’d rather his idiotically loyal fans thought he was a fucking junkie than…well, someone who woke up naked in bed with another man. 

What was he fucking thinking? Was that what he really wanted? What did it fucking matter if Louis was who Harry chose? It was no one’s business but his own and if someone didn’t like it, he didn’t fucking need them. It was easy to think things like that alone in his room but he knew the moment he stepped outside the door it would be a different story. He was Harry fucking Styles, after all, and breaking things was what he did best.

Louis stirred at his side but only for a moment, making a soft sound of contentment in the back of his throat and going quiet. Harry watched the slope of his back as he breathed and all at once Harry (needed) wanted to be closer. Careful with his body to keep from waking him, Harry slid closer across the (formerly) pristine white sheets. He hesitated, one hand hovering over Louis’s skin, and when he touched Louis (he was so fucking warm and Harry was cold) and wrapped his arm around him, he was startled to realize how perfectly the puzzle pieces of their bodies fit together. He tightened his hold around Louis’s middle and he made another soft sound, all warmth and sleep and happiness.

(Maybe the only choice Harry could make would be to never, ever get out of this bed.) 

Harry pressed his nose into the nape of Louis’s neck and he smelled like sugar and sweat and that was all right. Harry closed his eyes against the day and tangled up his legs with Louis, one hand over Louis’s heart. He could do this. He could stay here and he was okay and so was Louis and maybe this was where he was meant to be. It was easy to imagine staying at Louis’s side, after all, and the man Harry thought he was doomed to be weeks ago was farther away every moment. Maybe he would always be a junkie but that was all right; maybe he was meant to be a junkie for the smell of Louis instead of a drug inside a fucking needle. That was all right. It was okay. Louis was fucking intoxicating and that was okay; Harry wouldn’t mind being drunk off of him for as long as Louis would have him.

He tried to brush off the feeling of his heart dropping as he remembered for the second time since waking exactly who he was. He was Harry Styles, heartbreaker, and maybe this was all wrong and Harry was about to watch the world fall down around him. Louis was good and Louis would grow tired of him and Harry would deserve it when Louis left him. 

(He wouldn’t survive; he wouldn’t fucking survive, and how could it have only been weeks since Louis fell wildly into his life?)

A reality without Louis by his side was not a reality he was interested in anymore. Harry heard angry voices outside his door and he thought it sounded like Zayn and Niall but he wasn’t sure and it was hardly like it mattered anyway. Their squabbles didn’t bother him at all. Until Harry heard his name. 

“Who the fuck does Harry think he is?” Zayn raved, and Niall was good and Niall’s muffled reply was,

“Zayn calm down. It’s none of your business what he does in his own damn hotel room…” Niall trailed off and Harry listened closely, half sitting up, only catching the tail end of what Zayn hissed quietly in reply. 

“…all fucking night!” 

Oh, no. No, no, no. 

It was morning and in the morning things were different. This was wrong and Zayn was angry and Niall tried to console him and fix it because that was what he always did but Zayn shook him off and barked that he was leaving.

“We have a show tonight, you can’t just leave!” Niall cried. It was early in the morning and far too early for a fight but Zayn’s voice was already far away as he snapped,

“Watch me!” Niall called his name but it was fucking over and Zayn had been done with Harry for a long time and maybe this was finally the end. Because Harry always did what he did best; he broke somebody. Harry dropped back onto the (not so pristine anymore) white sheets and hid his face in one hand. This could not be happening. (Not that it should fucking matter, but) Zayn had heard them last night and he had told Niall and it was all over before it had even fucking begun. Harry thought about a million things he could do to try and make it better (he could chase Zayn and apologize and pretend he thought he did something to deserve this) but he did nothing. 

Maybe this time it wasn’t worth fixing. The Troves had a show tonight but it was stupid to think Zayn was irreplaceable. Maybe it was harsh and maybe it was mean but Zayn made up his mind about this band months ago and maybe some things were just meant to hurt and bleed. As Harry pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes hard enough to see stars it was all he could do to remember how to breathe. When Louis spoke it was nearly impossible to keep from holding his breath in his lungs. 

“What happened?” Louis asked. (The world was going to collapse on him.) Harry opened his eyes and for the hundredth time Harry was struck dumb by the beauty of Louis. He lay on his pillows with his sky blue eyes half lidded with sleep, his mouth curved up in a tired smile. Bruises painted his throat in brilliant shades of violet and red and maybe that was okay but it was hard for Harry to think with those eyes all over him and he needed them to go away. 

“Nothing,” Harry said.

“Mmm…” Louis murmured. “You’re a shit liar, Harry Styles.” He yawned, his jaw creaking and cracking, and when his unfocused eyes found Harry again the smile on his rosy lips made them shine. 

“I know,” Harry admitted. (I love you, I fucking love you, why is that all wrong?)

Even the thought terrified him. 

“Stop looking at me,” Harry ordered.

“Why?” Louis asked, his lazy smile growing wide.

Harry said the only thing he could think of. “Go look at yourself in the damn mirror.” Louis’s smile dazzled him and he didn’t want to admit it so with one hand Harry splayed his fingers over Louis’s face, his palm pressing in his nose, and Louis laughed and swiped his arm away.

“Fine,” he said. “Get off me.” Harry dropped his arm and slung it over his eyes, lying on his back and pretending none of this was real. He felt Louis pull back the covers and climb out of bed, stumbling over the pile of their clothes on the floor, and after a long, agonizing moment Louis let out a low whistle from the bathroom. 

“I can’t really get away with telling the guys I was attacked, can I?” Louis asked as if any of this was funny. 

“Doesn’t matter,” Harry moaned. “They heard us.”

“Heard us?” Louis asked, still admiring the damage to his neck in the bathroom. 

“You know,” Harry said, in pain from the weight of Zayn’s fury pressing in on him. 

“They probably just heard you,” Louis teased. “Moaning and all that goddamn dirty talking.” Harry shot up in the bed, the covers falling from his chest, and when Louis poked his head out of the bathroom with laughter on his face, Harry scowled.

“Only because you begged me for it,” Harry snapped. How could Louis stand there, the memories of being drunk off his ass last night making him laugh? 

“Did I?” Louis asked. He ducked back into the bathroom and admired his bruises with laughing eyes. “That doesn’t sound like me.”

“Well,” Harry said, “you’re a horny fucking drunk, Lou, what can I say?” He was beginning to feel like laughing himself, the absurdity of their argument and the hopelessness of The Troves becoming too tragic to do anything but join in Louis’s laughter. 

“I can’t help it,” Louis said. He had thrown on his underwear before stepping into the bathroom and he stood there, bouncing up and down on the carpet, and he looked just as good as he had last night. The bruises on his throat stood out against the paleness of his skin and there were more than just the ones Harry had created with his mouth; there were bruises in splotches of purple on Louis’s stomach and on his hips where Harry had dug his fingers in. He had never marked somebody like that before, painting a picture that said Louis was his and no one else’s. It felt good to know everyone would know. Fuck them and fuck Zayn if this was not something they could handle. Harry barely had a handle on it himself. 

“God,” Louis said. “I was scared you wouldn’t be able to look at me in the morning. You’re not scared, are you?”

“I’m not scared of anything,” Harry lied. 

“Okay.” Louis sat down on the edge of Harry’s bed; it was still warm where he had slept. “Prove it.”

“How?” (Anything for you.)

“Kiss me.” Louis was brave but his hands shook and Harry saw the tremor in his fingers and he didn’t know why but he wanted to be able to make it stop.

“Come here.” Louis slid closer and then he was within Harry’s reach and Harry pressed one hand to Louis’s cheek. “Lou, you’re so fucking…” Harry had no idea what he was going to say but before he could get it out Louis’s mouth was all over him. (His lips were so fucking hungry, ravenous and warm.) Harry kissed him back and that was okay because he was no good for Louis but Louis wanted him anyway. Louis was soft and he obeyed Harry’s hands, falling back onto his pillows as Harry rolled on top of him. 

“Hi,” Louis said. 

“Hi,” Harry replied. All he could think of was Louis’s parted lips and that was okay because all thoughts of Zayn and his anger and the sharp angles of him went away. Harry’s brain became nothing more than a radio tuned in to Louis, his name passing Harry’s lips over and over. Sound check would be in a few hours if it was to happen at all but what did that matter, anyway? The Troves were second only to what Harry wanted and right now all he wanted was the boy who threw his head back as Harry rolled his hips. 

(Louis met Harry in the haze of a mental breakdown in an alley and maybe breaking down was simply how Harry was meant to be.)

“Kiss me,” Louis pleaded when Harry pulled back to admire the pink color blooming high on Louis’s cheeks. 

“In a minute,” Harry replied. 

“Now.”

“Wait.” Harry leaned in close, close enough to feel the heat of Louis’s skin, and Louis’s eyes roved over his face and Louis bit at his lip and held it tight between his teeth. “You want me, don’t you?”

“More than anything. Kiss me.” Harry wanted to obey him but he was so beautiful and he couldn’t make himself close his eyes and lean in. 

“In a minute,” Harry said. Louis whined, a low mewling sound in the back of his throat, and Harry brushed back Louis’s messy hair from his forehead and ran his thumb down the curve of his temple. Louis was insatiable and he looked like he might gnaw his lip off as Harry tortured him, bucking his hips just enough to make Louis gasp and roll his eyes back. 

“You’re,” Louis gasped, “such a fucking tease.”

“Beg for me,” Harry ordered. 

“Haz…” Louis breathed. Harry pressed his hand to the side of Louis’s neck and when he dug his thumb into one purple bruise Louis let out a moan that could move mountains (the sound of his voice could sure as hell move Harry). “Haz, God, kiss me!” Louis’s hands were desperate as he took hold of handfuls of Harry’s hair and pulled. Harry jerked his head back and Louis let him go and before he could make another move Harry took hold of Louis’s hands and pinned his arms above his head.

“Ow!” Louis whined, bucking his hips to try and shake Harry off, but Harry held tight. 

“I said…beg for me,” Harry said. Louis squirmed and whined but with Harry sitting on his hips he wasn’t going anywhere. Harry had never felt anything like this before, the desperate, stupid need to control the boy beneath him, and he was so fucking hard and Louis was fucking gorgeous and nothing else mattered. 

“Harry, please,” Louis whimpered. His cheeks were pink and he gnawed at his lip and left imprints of his teeth. He was fucking beautiful and warm and the sunlight streaming through the window bounced around the room and off his skin. The ring on Louis’s finger scratched Harry’s back and he remembered the way it stung last night as Louis clung in desperation to his hips when he took him into his mouth. The stones on the ring were sharp and Harry (loved) endured the pain for the feel of Louis’s fingers dancing on his spine. Louis was soft, so goddamn soft, and Louis breathed Harry’s name again and again.

“Harry, Hazza, Haz,” Louis whined. “Harry, please.”

“What do you want?” Harry asked as if he had no idea.

“You.”

“I’m right here.” Harry leaned in close and he nipped at Louis’s ear and the noise Louis made was fucking inhuman and the loveliest thing Harry had ever heard. When Louis spoke again he sounded like another moment teetering on the edge would cause him to start to cry.

“Hazza,” he slurred, “Hazza, baby, please.” He was perfect; he was glorious, and he belonged to Harry. No one else would touch him ever again if Harry had anything to say about it. Maybe that was okay, and the proof was in the way their bodies fit together perfectly. 

“What do you want?” Harry asked again.

“I want you.”

“Tell me what you want me to do.” He gave order after order and Louis was good and Louis obeyed.

“Kiss me,” he pleaded. “Fucking kiss me.” He jerked his hips and Louis was so soft except for where he wasn’t and finally Harry leaned in with his mouth inches from Louis. 

“Don’t run away from me,” Harry ordered, and feverishly Louis nodded. 

“Never.” And there it was. With the promise of never leaving Harry’s side Harry surged forward and pressed his lips to Louis’s. Instantly the soft edges of Louis sharpened and it was all over. Whatever else filled his head disappeared and fell away because Louis tasted sweet and sounded sweeter and they moved together like they were one person instead of two and maybe that was how all of this was supposed to go. Louis murmured something that sounded like,

“Love you,” and maybe that scared Harry more than anything he had ever heard before but it was okay because Louis was something special and he was all Harry wanted. Harry couldn’t possibly get enough of the taste of Louis’s skin and maybe he was the insatiable one. Louis bucked beneath him and he whimpered and he begged and Harry nipped at his lips and at his throat and Louis was so damn open and so damn sweet and Harry was exhausted from the fighting and the anger of the days behind him he thought he might lose it but Louis brought him back to life. 

(Louis tasted sweeter than whiskey and coursed through his veins far hotter than heroin and maybe he was a fucking worthless junkie but maybe that was all he was meant to be.)

Harry drew Louis’s lip into his mouth and Louis lost control. Maybe Harry was domineering and selfish but he loved the way Louis squirmed helplessly beneath him and he loved the feeling of control. (He loved a lot of things and maybe Louis topped the list.) 

No, no, no; this was all wrong and Harry had a band that depended on him and he might just lose himself in the softness of Louis and he was so goddamn scared he couldn’t breathe but why did he have to breathe, anyway, with Louis filling his lungs? 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Louis whimpered. He took hold of Harry’s shoulders and arched his back to get closer to his body, sweaty skin on sweaty skin. It hurt but Harry craved it as Louis raked his fingers down his back and Louis was so hard, pressed against Harry’s thigh, and as they swayed together Harry wondered what would happen if they were to come undone together. Harry was terrible at a lot of things and sex topped the list, but maybe with Louis things were different. Every touch nearly brought Louis to tears, sweat glistening in the hollow of his throat and on his chest where he was flushed red. Harry released Louis’s mouth and Louis groaned, maybe pining for the taste on Harry’s tongue like Harry pined for him, but Harry was selfish and what he wanted mattered most. He pressed kisses into Louis’s chest, tasting the salt on his skin, and Louis bucked and fisted Harry’s hair in both hands. 

(He was so damn hot and he belonged to Harry.)

Harry kissed down Louis’s ribs and to the trail of dark hair on his stomach (fuck, this was like nothing Harry had ever had before; he had never gone to bed with someone who had soft hair leading all the way down to the waistband of their underwear) and Louis was loud and it didn’t matter because his voice was all Harry wanted. (Let everyone hear; they would see the truth anyway painted in purple on Louis’s skin.) 

“Hazza…” (Harry could have killed anyone else if they ever called him that but falling from Louis it sounded like something secret only the two of them could share.) “Hazza, my Haz.” Sure, that was all right. Harry belonged to Louis as much as Louis belonged to him; Harry could give him that. He could give Louis everything he had and more if Louis demanded it. Everything he was and everything he had belonged to Louis and maybe that was just the way this all was meant to go. It was messy and it was ugly in a lot of places but it was something easy and it was something good. Harry slid Louis’s underwear down over his hips and Louis was crazy to have put them back on in the first place because they ended up right back on the carpet of their room and that was okay because Harry was God-awful at a lot of things but pleasing Louis was something he could do.

It was easy. 

 

Later Louis danced by himself in the bathroom as he brushed his teeth and Harry watched him from where he lolled on his bed. Louis hummed to himself a song that Harry recognized, one that he wrote a long, long time ago, and he couldn’t help himself and as Louis hummed Harry opened his mouth and began to sing. 

“It’s not so easy breathing in,” Harry sang to the beat of Louis’s mindless humming. Louis spit in the sink and wiped his mouth and gargled water, resuming his humming as he picked up Harry’s hairbrush and brushed back his hair. At first Louis did not hear Harry join in, but slowly he dropped the brush and squared his shoulders and fell completely silent. He was listening and Harry watched his eyes slip closed in the mirror and he couldn’t keep from grinning at the solemnity on Louis’s face. 

“I’m drowning in the emptiness of you,” he sang. “It’s not so hard to stop and think of lonely nights, but maybe, baby, this time we are through.” It was a stupid song from his youth, written for some girl he couldn’t have remembered if he wanted to, and Harry went quiet and watched Louis breathe and from the bathroom Louis said,

“God, I love your voice.”

“It’s not so great,” Harry replied. 

“It’s amazing,” Louis disagreed. He turned away from the mirror and he held his knuckles between his teeth and around his hand he smiled. “It’s the most amazing voice I’ve ever heard.”

“Fuck off,” Harry said, falling on his back on the bed so Louis wouldn’t see him blush. (More people than Harry could ever count had told him just the same, but it was different coming from Louis because Louis was special and every word he said was something Harry wanted to cling to and remember forever.) Still avoiding Louis’s gaze even as Louis sat beside him, Harry said to the garishly white ceiling, “I was thinking of pitching Of the Color of the Sky to the guys today. What do you think?”

Louis laughed as he walked his fingers down Harry’s stomach to the spot where his hipbone dipped to his stomach. “I think you should hold off on that until a day where they’re not grumpy for being kept awake by us.”

“Ugh,” Harry sighed. “Fuck them. Fuck them!” He was only half joking but Louis laughed and he tugged with gentle fingers at the hair on Harry’s stomach and Harry swatted him away. This was so much better than dancing around each other, flirting stupidly and not quite meeting in the middle. It was crazy and it was strange but now that it was real they could hardly keep their hands off each other. Sophia banged on the door and ordered Harry to go downstairs and meet the band in the lobby so they could take a cab to the concert venue for sound check, and Harry assured her he would be right there as Louis whispered huskily,

“No, you won’t,” and pressed soft lips to the inside of Harry’s thigh. 

“No, I gotta go,” Harry tried. He tried to slide off the bed and reach for his sneakers but Louis was persistent and he always got what he wanted.

“Mmm, in a minute,” Louis said, a perfect echo of Harry’s relentless teasing from before. Louis nuzzled his nose into Harry’s thigh and it felt too fucking good to push him away but they had somewhere to be and this had to stop before Louis pulled him in again.

“Lou,” Harry said. “Lou, we have all the time in the world. Later.” He tried to sit up but Louis dug his nails into Harry’s thigh and held on tight. 

“Mine,” Louis said, and Harry agreed.

“Yes,” he said. “Yeah, but we gotta go…”

“Later.” On the nightstand between Louis’s empty bed and Harry’s, Harry’s phone began to ring. He scrambled for it and it was Sophia, of course, and he answered the phone as Louis attacked Harry’s stomach with kisses. 

“I’m coming,” he promised Sophia, and Louis said,

“Damn straight, you are,” and it was all over. Sophia told him he was on his own and they were leaving without him and he would have to meet them at the venue because they were already late and Harry was in a world of trouble but Harry hung up because none of that fucking mattered. “You gonna cum for me, baby?” Louis asked, and his voice was husky and his hands were warm and Harry hated being called baby but not when it came from Louis. Harry nodded and as Louis’s mouth dipped lower and lower down his body, he closed his eyes and willed everything else to disappear.

 

“Do you think Sophia is going to kill you?” Louis asked in the back of a cab on the way to the venue Harry would be playing to 5,000 people inside tonight. 

“It’d be worth it,” Harry replied. Louis’s hand was on the inside of his thigh and he stroked his thumb along the seam on Harry’s jeans. This was all right. Harry could handle this. It was too warm in the taxi and sweat dripped down Harry’s back but soon he would be onstage and nothing else would matter. Onstage no one would know about the bruises on his hips or the way Louis tasted on his lips. Maybe that was okay but a part of Harry wanted to scream from his spot atop his amp that nothing else mattered but Louis, Louis, Louis. 

Harry caught the hand roving up and up his thigh and just like that morning and last night the sharp ring on Louis’s middle finger scratched at his skin. Harry lay his palm flat and instantly Louis lay his hand on top of Harry’s, his hand tiny in comparison, and with his other hand Harry slid the ring from Louis’s finger. Louis watched him, lip between his teeth, as Harry put the silver and emerald ring on his ring finger and splayed his hand to admire the effect.

“I’m going to keep this for the show,” Harry said, and Louis nodded. “For good luck.”

“Looks good on you,” Louis said, and when their eyes met Harry felt a yank in his stomach and a pang in his chest. This was strange and too fast and Harry knew he had a habit of taking too much too soon of the newest drug he discovered but he wasn’t scared of anything and this he had a handle on. He curled his hand into a fist and the damn ring was sharp and it dug into his palm and maybe Louis liked the pain to remind him he was alive because that was just how the ring made Harry feel. 

At the venue they climbed out of the cab and Sophia must have been watching because she dashed down the stone set of stairs to the massive front door and met them at the bottom.

“Haz,” she said, breathless. Her hair fell over her face and she brushed it back impatiently, eyes wide. Something was wrong. 

(No, no, no, not again, please.)

“What?” Harry asked.

(NO, no, no, everything was okay and it was good and it was great.)

And then Niall appeared at the door, beneath the screen announcing “TONIGHT: 7 PM: THE TROVES”, and his eyes were wide, too, and before he even stepped to Sophia’s side he said,

“Haz, I think we, uh, got sound check under control. Your mic sounds great, you’ll sound great, Jeff tested it and, uh, it’s all set.”

“Right,” Sophia nodded, frantic. They were hiding something and if they thought Harry was too stupid to notice, they were crazy. “Maybe you two should go do something fun until the show…here.” She dug into the purse dangling from one arm and she pulled out her wallet, thumbing through her money as Harry tried to find answers in Niall’s face. Niall was good, Niall would tell him, but he bowed his head the moment Harry looked at him. 

And then Liam joined them and he was frowning as usual but the moment he laid eyes on Louis he grinned, devilish.

“Hey!” Liam said, coming closer than Niall or Sophia dared and slapping Louis on the back. “Let me see that!” He tilted Louis’s chin back with his thumb and Louis looked scared out of his mind but Liam whistled and from behind Louis’s back he dropped Harry a wink. “Jesus, Haz, were you trying to kill him?” 

“No,” Harry said, and Louis let out a nervous laugh and Liam let him go. 

“Well,” Liam said, “I’m glad you guys are getting some.” He grinned at Harry and this was not like Liam at all to be the only one on Harry ’s side and maybe Harry was a little scared of him but he tried to smile back and he said,

“Thanks, Liam.” He put power behind it because it was remarkable that Liam was still his friend and that Liam didn’t care who he fucking shared a bed with and it felt good and then Niall mentioned Zayn’s name and it all came crashing down again. 

“What about Zayn?” Harry asked. Sophia glared at Niall but Niall jerked his chin up to look at Harry and he said to Sophia,

“We have to tell him, Soph.”

“Tell me what?”

“We don’t want you to talk to Zayn today, okay?” Sophia cried, throwing her hands up. “He’s mad and we barely got him to come here today, Haz. If he sees you, he’s going to throw a punch, and that is not going to happen. Do you hear me?”

“Zayn wants to fight me? For what?” (Zayn was his best friend and Zayn had patched him up when he broke a fucking needle in his arm shooting up and Zayn held him while he suffered through withdrawal more times than Harry could count.) 

“This has just been adding up for him for so long,” Sophia said, face tight. “It’s not just this one thing, Haz, but he’s furious you kept him up all night, okay? He’s mad and he’s being pathetic and acting like a child. He left the hotel last night with the fucking skank at his side and he only came back this morning to ride with us to sound check. It’s a fucking miracle there are no fans here yet to watch this shit show, Haz, and you better pray no one finds out about this. God, I didn’t want to tell you and scare you but there are going to be big people here tonight. They want to watch you and they want to sign you because they think you’re something special.” Sophia threw up her hands and she wiped furiously at her eyes to hide the tears that had begun to fall. “I tried so hard to keep this band together, Haz, and I’m sorry I couldn’t. I don’t know what to do anymore.” She cried and it wasn’t like her to let Liam pull her to his side and hold her but no one here was acting like themselves today.

(Except for Harry; he always stayed exactly the same, stubborn and mean and selfish.)

He pressed Louis’s ring into his skin and God, he loved the way it hurt. 

“Soph, we were underwater a long time ago,” Liam said. “You did the best you could.”

“I failed you; don’t lie to me,” she whimpered, dabbing with the sleeve of her blouse at both eyes. 

“We failed each other,” Niall said. All Harry could do was look at his feet. “We used to be best friends and we used to have each other’s backs, but we don’t anymore and it’s not your fault.” Niall’s eyes were all over Harry but he couldn’t look up and look back at him. He couldn’t. 

“I love you guys,” Sophia said, startling Liam into laughing. “I do! And I’m sorry if I didn’t say it enough. You guys are my best friends and I don’t want to lose you.” She was nothing like the brisk woman who pounded on Harry’s door in the morning and maybe it was his fault and maybe he should try and make it better. But he didn’t. He never did. It was a slow burn that caused the downfall of this band but it was a crash that brought about the end. All of this happened way too fast for anyone to grab it before it spun desperately out of control. Louis brought Harry back to life but it was too much too late and it was all fucking over.

“Haz?” Niall asked, and Harry thought he must look on the brink of passing out because he sure as hell felt like it. “You with us?” Harry nodded but it made him dizzy and maybe sobriety was not for him but it was hard to tell anymore. The world tilted and unfocused but he blinked and it righted itself, Niall looking at Harry with concern lighting up his eyes. 

(Maybe deep down Niall still cared because Harry knew he, for one, sure as hell did.)

And then Louis’s hand was his tether, tying him to Planet Earth, Louis pressing his fingers into the small of Harry’s back, and the touch helped Harry focus on keeping the blackness from the corners of his vision. But Sophia cried,

“No!” and Liam lunged away from her and towards the shape that emerged from the front door of the venue but Zayn shoved him away and sent him sprawling on his ass on the concrete. 

“Hey!” Niall went to Liam and helped him pick himself up and Harry took one step away from Louis because Zayn came at him with his fist in the air and Harry could spare Louis from that. It was something stupid but something simple he could do, and then the cold air was full of voices and shouting and hands and Zayn’s fist connected with Harry’s cheek and sent him spinning to the ground. 

“Zayn!” Sophia screamed, and Harry would not give Zayn the satisfaction of crying out in pain. Zayn landed heavy on his hips and Harry’s hands found his shoulders but Zayn was strong, so much stronger than Harry, and he hit Harry again and with a white hot flash of pain he felt his lip split open and he tasted blood on his tongue. Niall and Liam moved together and they were fast but Zayn landed another punch that hit Harry’s cheek

(Zayn nursed him back to health more times than he dared to try and count)

and Harry would not whine and he would not cry out in pain. Zayn hit him and Harry’s hands fluttered uselessly at Zayn’s shoulders; he couldn’t get a grip on Zayn enough to lift him off. 

“Zayn stop!” Sophia wailed. No, Harry wanted to tell her, it was all right. Zayn was good and Zayn deserved to be the one to finally give Harry what he deserved. Zayn hit Harry’s chest, his fist bloody, and all the air in Harry’s body left him. He coughed and sputtered but he would rather die than make a sound and maybe that would be all right. He coughed and splashed Zayn’s arm with blood as once again he smashed his fist into the center of Harry’s chest. 

Finally Niall and Liam managed to wrap their hands around Zayn’s arms and together they dragged him, spitting and covered in blood from Harry’s mouth, off of Harry and onto the pavement. He lunged for Harry and they held him tight and Sophia stood perfectly still with her hands over her mouth and Louis’s hands landed light on Harry’s shoulders but he was done and he collapsed on his back to the sidewalk. The world spun around him and he focused on the sign announcing the band, his band that was going to play tonight. He lolled on the pavement as Niall and Liam wrestled with Zayn and his pulse pumped painfully in his head to the beat of the cuts in his face. It hurt to lay there and it hurt to breathe and if Zayn broke something in him Sophia was going to kill him. He had a show to play and maybe Zayn was replaceable but Harry was not. 

“Zayn, calm the fuck down!” Sophia cried, but the moment Niall and Liam loosened their hold on him, he lunged again.

“What is your fucking problem?” a voice rang out, and Louis was brave and he was not afraid of Zayn. Harry wished he could be so lucky. He closed his eyes and his mouth was full of hot, salty blood and he pulled his busted lip into his mouth and tried to recall the feeling of Louis’s mouth warm on his. 

“My problem?!” Zayn cried. (Was he crying?) “My problem is you!” Harry had to speak; he had to stop Zayn before he said something even Sophia couldn’t fix, and he spat blood out of the corner of his mouth and said,

“Zayn, hey.” Zayn ignored him and it hurt, it fucking hurt, but Harry opened his eyes and turned his head to look at Zayn who sat on his ass on the sidewalk with Niall holding onto one arm and Liam to the other. “Zayn, look at me.”

“Shut up!” Zayn screamed. Harry was right, tears streamed down his reddened face, and Harry had never seen Zayn cry like this before and his heart beat wildly in his aching chest but he inhaled as best he could and tried again to speak. “Don’t say anything to me, you fucking faggot! I don’t want to hear anything from you!”

(It was over, then, it was all fucking over.)

“Zayn!” Sophia screamed at the top of her lungs. Zayn turned his head to look at her and the anger on his face turned to surprise as she lunged for him and slapped him hard enough to make his neck crack. “Zayn Malik, how dare you use that kind of language! He’s your best fucking friend and he is a person and I will not tolerate that word coming from your foul mouth ever again!” She screamed, inches from his face, and when she pulled back and straightened the hem of her shirt, silence fell over the sidewalk. Harry’s sneakers pointed to the sky as he lolled on his back and Zayn’s chest heaved as he glared daggers at Sophia. (She was brave and she was not afraid of him and she had stuck up for Harry and the pain of the words Zayn slung at him was nothing compared to the feeling of Sophia coming through for him, as if he had any honor to uphold.)

“Now,” Sophia said, her voice dripping with venom, “are you going to go inside and stay inside and not say a damn word until the show?”

“No show,” Zayn barked. 

“Oh!” Sophia said, a hysterical pretend laugh falling from her. “Oh, no show? Really? Over my fucking dead body! You are going to grow up and you are going to play this show and tomorrow’s show and the fucking show the night after that! Once this tour is over, that’s fine, you can quit! But not one moment before, do you hear me?!” 

Harry heard her. He fucking heard her, all right. But it scared the shit out of Harry and it made Zayn angrier than he had ever been but finally Zayn nodded. 

“Fine,” he said. “Fine. Get off me. I’m fine.” Niall and Liam looked at Sophia and she nodded and the moment they released him, Zayn was gone. He stuffed his hands in his pockets and he walked away and Sophia shouted after him that he better be back in time or not come back at all, and Zayn threw his middle finger in the air and Sophia threw her hands up in defeat. 

“He’ll come back,” Niall soothed. “It’s okay. He’s just a moron.” 

“You’re all morons,” Sophia moaned, and she pressed her finger and her thumb into the bridge of her nose and closed her eyes. “I’m going inside. The show starts at seven and I want you here at six; I don’t care what you do with yourselves between now and then but I don’t want to see you. Okay?”

“Okay,” Niall and Liam said together, and Sophia turned away.

“Good.” She took three steps up towards the building and then she turned around on her heels. “Oh,” she added, using one hand to gesture towards Harry. “You might want to take him to the hospital. He’ll need stitches here.” She pressed her finger to her lower lip and with that she took the rest of the stairs at a run and disappeared into the building. There was a silence following her departure that Louis’s timid voice broke.

“Haz?” he asked. “Are you okay?”

“Is he out?” Niall asked, and Harry listened to Niall and Louis and Liam make careful steps closer to him. 

“No,” Liam said, his face looming over him the first face Harry saw. “He’s home.”

“You okay, Haz?” Niall asked as if any of this was funny. In reply Harry spat blood down his chin and Niall’s face went white. “Right,” he said. “Let’s get you to the hospital, then.” Louis hovered anxiously, his knuckles in his mouth, as Niall and Liam dragged Harry to his feet. He wavered on the sidewalk and the world began to grow dark at the edges but he was not going to give Zayn the satisfaction of winning this fight and he was not going to pass out. Niall offered Harry his shoulder and Harry leaned gratefully on his friend and Liam tried to take his other side but Louis spoke up and he said one word.

“Please.” Liam nodded and he shrugged and Louis stepped to Harry’s side. He wrapped one arm around Harry’s middle and on his other side Niall did the same and as a three headed monster they began to walk. Once the venue was far behind them, Niall spoke.

“Harry,” he said, “and Lou.” Louis looked across Harry at him and Harry closed his eyes and let Niall speak. “I really hope that you guys don’t think…” He took in a deep breath and Liam waved his arm to hail a passing cab that ignored them completely. “I just want you to know…”

Liam grew tired of waiting and he finished Niall’s thought for him. “We don’t think the way Zayn does. We don’t care about, I don’t know, your, uh, sexuality, or whatever. You’re still Harry and it doesn’t matter to us.”

That was good; it felt good to hear, and tiredly Harry nodded. That was good. They were good to him and he didn’t deserve them but Louis said, “Thank you,” at Harry’s side and the relief in his voice was palpable. 

“It’s disgusting that he…” Niall said. “What he said was wrong, I mean. Really wrong. This whole time I thought…” The three of them tripped over the curb and Niall cried out as Harry’s head collided with his nose. 

(Sorry, sorry, sorry.)

“Ow,” Niall said. Then, “This whole time I thought we were fixable but I don’t think so anymore.”

“Right,” Liam said. “We just weren’t meant to last, I guess.” Another cab drove by them and Liam grumbled but he searched for the nearest emergency room in his phone and said, “It’s doable. About a mile…this way.” He twisted his body and pointed down the street and Niall groaned and Harry knew he was heavy but he knew Niall would carry him as long as he had to. Blood spilled from Harry’s ruined lip and he couldn’t close his mouth and spit mingled with the hot blood and he must have looked like a zombie, drooling and bleeding from his mouth, and it didn’t really matter. That was all right. It was okay. 

(I know I’m heavy, Niall , but I’m your friend and you are good to me and you can carry me, can’t you?)

Louis and Niall struggled to keep Harry walking (his knees kept unlocking and he nearly tumbled to the concrete but he was not going to pass out and he always managed to stand again) but slowly they made their way down the street as cars and buses and cabs whirred by. Harry was tired, his body exhausted, and his head lolled listlessly between Niall and Louis as they walked. 

“You’ll be okay,” Niall said just to say something. “They’ll fix you up and we’ll have a good time onstage tonight. You won’t have to say a word to Zayn the rest of the tour; I’ll make sure of that.”

(There were five goddamn months left in the tour and they were never going to make it because they had shows in London and in Paris and Berlin and after Europe they were to fly back home and travel the states from coast to coast again and they were going to die onstage if they kept trying to go like this because there was no fucking end in sight.) 

“Niall, take this left.” Liam led the way but still he gave directions and they took the corner and Harry didn’t have time to warn them before his legs betrayed him and he collapsed.

“Haz!” Louis cried, falling with Harry to his knees. Louis’s knees cracked on the sidewalk and Harry was sorry but he didn’t have the strength to tell him. Louis was beautiful as his hands landed on Harry’s shoulders and his face was all Harry could see. “Haz, are you all right?” 

“He’s fine,” Niall said as if he was unsure but wanted to give Louis comfort anyway. Harry appreciated that; Niall was so good and Harry owed him so much. Harry nodded because it was all he could do and he wanted to kiss Louis but he had the feeling Louis didn’t feel the same. Niall ducked under Harry’s arm and Louis under the other and together they pulled him back up to his feet. 

“Got him?” Niall grunted, and Louis nodded.

“We got you, Haz,” he said. Okay. Okay. Okay. Harry nodded and Liam said they were nearly there and Harry lifted his head and there it was. Together they busted through the emergency room’s sliding glass doors and Niall sat Harry down and there were noises all around and Harry had to make it go away and he drew his knees to his chest and pressed his eyes shut tight and waited for the pain in his body to take him away. 

 

A nurse with a gentle face and a Cockney accent numbed Harry’s lip to stitch it and stitched in a neat row of four tiny black sutures. 

“There,” she said, patting his cheek and offering a smile. “The feeling with come back in a little bit, love.” She tweaked his cheek affectionately with her forefinger and thumb and she used medical tape to seal the wide cut on Harry’s cheekbone. She helped him ease out of his wool coat and his T-shirt so she could examine the damage to his chest; a deep purple bruise bloomed where Zayn hit him but she promised him nothing was broken and he would be perfectly fine. 

“Told you,” Niall said, punching him gently on the shoulder, and Harry tried as best he could to return the beatific smile Niall showed him. Harry ached all over, his face and his lip the central source of pain, but his back hurt and his head hurt from landing under Zayn on the pavement. He tried to hide his limp due to one throbbing knee as the four of them left the hospital. 

“Want to get some food?” Niall asked Harry. “We should get some food in you before the show.”

“No,” Harry said, his stomach rumbling at the thought of food, but his head still spun and he didn’t think he could stomach it. Niall tried to protest but Harry repeated, “No,” and this time when they hailed a cab the very first one stopped for them. 

“Typical,” Liam growled as they climbed inside. “They probably didn’t want to risk you bleeding out on their seats.”

“Right,” Harry said. His lip throbbed as the feeling slowly came back, and he prodded at the row of stitches and winced at the sharp sting of pain that followed.

“Don’t do that,” Louis said as they rode back to the concert venue. All at once Harry felt a pain in his chest that had nothing to do with his fresh bruises. Louis had watched Harry and Zayn fight outside the venue and he had listened to the poison Zayn spat and he had carried Harry to the hospital and stood there with his head bowed as the nurse stitched him back together. And still he was not going anywhere.

(Harry was not breaking anymore; he was broken, and he was taking Louis down with him.)

Louis was not meant to be here; he was not meant to be part of this awful, bloody life, and Harry was a lot of things and maybe he was selfish but there was something he could do for Louis that just might fix him before it was too late. He owed Louis a lot of things and he owed Louis his goddamn life. He owed Louis the stars in the fucking ugly sky and he wanted to pull them down one by one and drop them on Louis’s skin. He wanted to kiss Louis over and over until Louis forgot how bad he was and how awful he was and how wrong it was that Harry let himself fall in love. Louis dropped a hand on Harry’s thigh and he squeezed and he was so fucking gorgeous, the scent of him filling up and occupying every corner of Harry’s brain, and Harry could do something to fix everything before Louis got his heart shattered into irreparable pieces.

He had to send Louis home. 

(No, no, no, no, no.)

He couldn’t; he wouldn’t survive; but hadn’t he always survived before? Sure, he had fucking seized on a dirty bathroom floor and he had puked so hard the whites of his eyes turned scarlet but he always pulled himself together and carried on because that was what he had to do. Louis was beautiful and Harry painted an ugly picture by luring Louis in and Harry was despicable and he wanted nothing more than to make Louis his forever.

(What was wrong with him?!)

“Harry,” Niall said as the cab pulled to a stop in front of the concert venue. “You look a little…oh, fuck.” Niall opened the door of the cab and fell out on the concrete, leaping to his feet just in time to avoid Harry as he spilled out of the cab after him and puked the blood he had swallowed from his busted lip out on the pavement. 

“Haz!” Three frantic voices said, and Louis’s hands were on his back and Niall was picking him up and Liam was standing in front of them to keep the mess that was Harry hidden from the fans that had begun to arrive to wait in front of the venue. It was useless, they saw the blood spilling scarlet from his lips and immediately he heard them begin to murmur. He wanted them to shut up; they had to shut up before he lost it, but all he could do was let Niall drag him again to his feet and help him limp towards the door.

“Harry!” the fans closest to the door called to him as he passed by. “What happened?”

“Sorry, guys, a little slip and fall incident,” Niall said as he threw an arm across Harry’s shoulders. “He’s fine; see you at the show.” They protested; they always wanted something from him, and then the four of them were through the door and safe inside and Harry shoved Niall off of him because he was going to fucking puke again and he had to get away from them before they saw him fall apart. He limped, his legs crying out in pain, as fast as he could towards the bathroom in the back of the venue. He slammed the door shut (just like in Denver) and dropped to his knees (just like in Denver) and again his stomach clenched and he heaved and spat blood and vomit into the toilet. He was revolting and he was broken and when urgent fists hit the door Harry closed his eyes and willed them to go away. 

“Harry, baby, hey.” Louis was there and Louis wasn’t going anywhere and Harry hated being called that but maybe from Louis it was okay. “Haz, are you okay?” 

Harry was not made to fall in love. Harry was meant to be alone and Harry was meant to be a junkie, a washed up musician who died in a puddle of his own puke, and maybe that was okay. It was okay. Because Harry would not subject Louis to this for another moment. He called to Louis and he said,

“Get Soph for me.” Louis was good and Louis obeyed and a moment later Sophia rapped with her fist at the door. 

“Haz!” Sophia called through the door. “What’s going on?” It was impossible; it was fucking impossible, but Harry climbed to his feet and used the sink for balance as he leaned forward to unlock the door. 

“Are you alone?” he asked her.

“Yes.” With that, he opened the door. 

“Close it behind you,” he said, and Sophia looked horrified at the sight of him but she did as he asked of her. 

“Haz, do you need me to postpone the show?” she asked as if that was all that she could give. 

“No,” he said as he teetered on the spot. “No, listen.” He wiped at his mouth with the back of his hand and Sophia grimaced but did not say a word. She was listening. And Harry said the most painful four words he had ever let out, the burn on the back of his tongue from releasing them the worst pain he had ever felt. 

“I want him gone,” he said, and there it was. It was all over and Harry was going to die but that was all right because maybe that was what he wanted. 

“What?” Sophia asked. She didn’t understand. That was all right. Harry could explain.

“Lou,” he said, ignoring the lump rising in his throat. “Lou,” he said again, “I want Lou gone.”

“Harry,” Sophia said, searching his face for any sign of changing his mind. But it was over. He was done. And her shoulders sagged as she saw it written all over his face. This was the end. “Harry, what do you want me to do?”

“Send him home,” Harry said. “Buy him a ticket, get his shit from our room, and send him home. Now.”

Sophia looked up at him and her lip trembled but she held herself together and she said, “No.”

“No?” Harry said. 

“No,” she repeated. “This is not his fault and I will not let you run away ever again.”

“I’m not running,” Harry said. “I’m trying to save him from…from me. From this.”

“He chose you,” Sophia reminded him. 

“He chose the idea of me,” he corrected her. Louis was a fan and he loved the lyrics Harry wrote and the pain that they felt together through the words Louis inked on his skin. 

“Haz, he loves you,” Sophia said, and that was the last thing Harry wanted to hear. 

“Fuck!” he cried, and before Sophia could react he spun to face the mirror and threw an awful punch and shattered the mirror right in the goddamn center of his ugly, blood marred face. “Fuck!” he said again as new pain flashed hot up his arm and blood ran red down his knuckles to his fingertips.

“Haz, punching things won’t fix anything,” Sophia said. But Harry was in pain, Harry was in agony, and she would never fucking understand. He was broken and he was an asshole but he was trying not to be those things for just long enough to spare Louis from falling any deeper into the trap he had laid. He was trying to make things better before he ruined Louis and why was Sophia looking at him like he was an injured animal she wanted to pick up and carry home? He was unhealthy and he was sick but he was fine and he was going to be okay; he just needed time and he needed space and he needed to be far away from Louis. 

“Harry, I’m going to go out there and I’m going to cancel the show,” Sophia said, hands out and her voice low like he might just get startled enough to run away. “And then you are going to get a cab to the hotel and you are going to sleep this off and tomorrow you are going to play for these people. Can you do that for me?”

Harry shook his head.

(He needed booze in his blood; he needed coke or Oxy or heroin.)

“Don’t go away!” she shouted, and he knew exactly what she meant. She could see in his face he was about to fall away from her, diving deep into his own head so far she could never reach him. That was the only place Harry wanted to find. “Harry, listen to me! Go to bed and we’ll talk tomorrow. Harry, do you hear me? I love you, Haz, and I want you to be well…”

“Send him home,” Harry said one more time. He needed it; he needed Louis to be safe and far away from him where Harry could never touch him again. The crowd could reach for Harry but he would never let himself reach for Louis again. That was all right. He fell too fast and he didn’t believe in (forever) soul mates but he believed in love, and as long as he loved Louis he was never going to touch him again. 

“Harry, everyone can see the change in you when he’s around,” Sophia pleaded. 

“I know,” Harry said. 

(Maybe it’s time to see clearly, I’m better when you are around.)

And it hurt and it was agonizing and this bathroom smelled like puke and sweat and he had to leave before it was too late.

“Send him home,” Harry said. “I’m begging you.” Sophia looked at him and he looked at her and once more she shook her head.

That was all right. It was over. 

It was over.

Harry nodded and he thought he might shatter if he took a step but he did it anyway and when he stayed together in one piece he took another and another until he was out the bathroom door. Crying his name, Sophia followed him, and the rest of the band was nowhere to be seen but Louis was there and Louis was the most beautiful thing Harry had ever seen but it was too much too soon and Louis deserved someone who could hand him the fucking stars. 

And that would never, ever be Harry fucking Styles.

“Hazza,” Louis said, and he took hold of Harry’s sleeve and he was so open and he was so lovely and his eyes were tired but still they gleamed, and Harry pulled away from Louis’s grasp and with Sophia dashing close behind him he made his way to the front door of the venue where fans gossiped and said his name over and over. 

“Harry!” Sophia said one more time but it was over and he was broken and every part of him hurt as he hailed a cab and slammed the door shut behind him. He rode to the street corner of the ritzy goddamn hotel and he searched the streets of London for nearly an hour (the show was supposed to start in thirty minutes and Harry’s phone rang endlessly in his pocket and they must be fucking frantic but he was despicable and it didn’t fucking matter) until he found exactly what he wanted. 

“You’re going to fucking fly,” the trembling addict in the alley assured him, and Harry passed him crumpled bills because it had been far too long and he knew he sure as hell wanted to fly. Cocaine was garbage and heroin was worse but he had a needle packed with both and he sure as shit was going to fly. Maybe he was meant to die at twenty-four and maybe that was okay and as he made his way to his hotel room and he locked the door behind him he thought more and more that flying was all that really mattered. 

It had been too fucking long and the needle hurt as it eased into Harry’s skin where the crook of his elbow was still stained purple with old track mark scars. He pulled it out and it slipped from his hand and he fell on his back on the bed on which just that morning Louis had looked gorgeous as he had took Harry into his mouth and begged for it. Harry felt his eyes roll back and that was okay. It was all over. He was fine. And maybe he took too much and maybe he was all right with that, too; maybe too much was exactly what he needed. 

(But he did not want to die; fuck, he didn’t want to die.)

If this was dying it was a lot more painful than Harry could have ever imagined. His heart hurt and he was stupid and he tried to stand to make himself puke in the bathroom with his fingers down his throat but he hit the carpet and he stayed there, giving in to dying with nothing in his eyes but the sight of the white, white ceiling. 

That was okay. 

Harry had shot up fucking speedballs before but nothing like this; just like everything in his life the high caught up to him way too fast for him to grab it and his fingertips went numb as the edges of his vision went dark. He was tired, so, so tired, and he wanted to sleep but he had the feeling that falling asleep on the hotel carpet would mean never waking up. 

(Louis had whined Harry’s name, the repetition like a prayer, on the bed by which Harry lay.)

This was wrong and Harry was all wrong and maybe he was meant to die but not like this at the age of twenty fucking four of an overdose on a cruddy rug.

The door flew open and Harry wanted to tell them it was too late; he was stupid and he had done something not one of them could fix but it was Louis who cried his name (God, it was Louis) in anguish and Harry’s heart was going to fucking give out but as long as Louis’s voice was the last thing he heard he was perfectly okay with this being the end. 

Maybe he deserved it and maybe he didn’t but nothing mattered because Louis was there and Harry loved him and he loved him and he loved him and it happened too fast and neither one of them had time to grab it before it all spun away.

“Haz!” It was not just Louis; it was Niall and it was Liam and it was Sophia, and wasn’t this just a fucking party? They had all bought themselves front row seats to the death of Harry fucking Styles, and wasn’t that just great? 

“Harry!” another voice rang out, and no, no, no, that was Zayn and Zayn was here and he cried Harry’s name like he was in pain and Harry’s eyes rolled painfully back in his head and someone fell to their knees noisily on the floor. Harry couldn’t see and he couldn’t feel his limbs but he felt burning in his guts and he knew there was nothing his audience could do. He owed it to them to let go and let go and release and fall away, but there it was and they had no intention of ever letting him go. 

“Hazza, Hazza, Haz,” Louis said, and Harry couldn’t see and his tongue was heavy in his throat and Louis was sobbing and it was all Harry’s fault. “Hazza, no, no, no no no, look at me!” For the first time Louis demanded that Harry looked at him and for the first time since hearing the command Harry wanted to obey. He wanted to. He wanted to. But Louis was far away and Harry couldn’t breathe to tell him how goddamn sorry he was and how all he wanted to do was to fix this and someone tore Louis’s hands off his chest and Louis cried loud enough to wake the dead but all the tears in the world couldn’t fix Harry. It was all wrong, Louis begging for Harry’s eyes, but what could Harry do if he couldn’t oblige?

His heart hurt, it fucking hurt, and the world began to slide away and why was the pain in his chest so fucking bad he couldn’t breathe? He ached and he ached and his head lolled on the floor and someone pressed a hand to his chest and held him down. 

“He’s not breathing!” someone cried, and that was right, that was right, Harry couldn’t remember how to breathe and maybe that was okay. Maybe this was the end but that was fucking all right because Harry demanded that Louis leave him and still he was there at his side. 

“Hazza, please, God, Hazza, baby, please…” Louis cried over and over and the door opened again to what sounded like a thousand more voices and Louis again was torn from Harry’s chest and he cried out, “Harry, look at me! You have to fucking look at me!”

Every fucking voice in the room cried his name and it was too much and his heart pounded, pounded, pounded, and it hurt and it hurt and it hurt and the man in the alley was right.

Harry was fucking flying. 

“Baby, breathe!” That was Louis and Harry was sorry, so fucking sorry, but all the sorrow in the world was not enough to restart the heart that stopped pounding in his chest. With a shudder and with a thud Harry felt his heart grind to a halt and with it everything else fell away. Somebody put pressure on his chest and somebody was trying desperately to bring him back to life and Harry wanted to beg the people standing all around him to let him go. He was poison and he was a junkie and this had to end before any battered hearts were broken.

Louis wailed, he fucking wailed, and maybe it was far too late for sparing hearts.

If this was dying it was a lot harder than Harry ever imagined and he let the fear go and he let Louis go and he waited for the pain in his chest to sing him to sleep.


	8. Chapter 8

Dying was hard but living was harder. Harry was in the hospital, he knew that, and he didn’t know much else. His chest ached from Zayn’s fists and from the beating he took from whoever had pounded at his heart to urge him back to life. Harry opened his eyes and he was alone. He had a needle in the back of his hand and an IV dripped clear fluid into his arm with a steady plinking noise. His heartbeat was announced in a series of beeps and flashes on a screen beside his bed. And there were flowers on the windowsill and sun streaming in through the window and Harry was achingly, painfully alone. 

He remembered crying and he remembered so much fucking pain but there wasn’t much else he could pull out of his tired brain. He was alone and he deserved nothing more. There were three vases on the windowsill, one spilling roses and baby’s breath and the other two dripping gaudy yellow and white flowers Harry didn’t recognize. Someone had propped greeting cards along the windowsill, too, and Harry couldn’t read them from where he lay but there were more of them than he could count. He craned his neck to look around the room and on the solitary blue plastic chair in the corner there was an overflowing stack of unopened cards. 

Someone (far more than one someone) cared a lot more than Harry ever deserved. 

Dying was hard but surviving was so much harder. Harry hadn’t wanted to die; he cried out in the end that he didn’t want to die, but he had done something stupider than he had ever done before and as he blinked hard at the ceiling to keep down the hot tears rising behind his eyes he wondered what the fuck he did to (have to) deserve to live. He had overdosed and he was selfish and he had been convulsing on the fucking floor when everyone who (loved) cared about him had raced into his room. 

Footsteps approached Harry’s room and he stiffened, holding his breath. But then the footsteps faded away and he sagged in relief. His bed was obscenely comfortable and self-loathing burned like an ulcer in his stomach and he wondered what he did to deserve to be alive. Harry’s pillow was soft and he was tired but he did not want to let sleep take him away. He wanted to see Zayn and apologize for making him cry and he wanted to see (Louis) Sophia and thank her for trying to talk him down and he wanted to see (Louis) Niall and Liam and ask them if there was still hope that their friendship might be repaired. 

He wanted to see Louis. He was scum and he was mean and he made agony paint Louis’s voice white hot and he wanted to cling to him and press kisses into his face and never let him go away again. 

But he was not a good person and he knew it and it killed him but maybe he hoped that Louis did not want him anymore. Maybe he hoped that Louis took one look at him foaming at the mouth on the floor and ran for his life. (He didn’t hope that; he needed Lou and couldn’t live without him.) He hoped that Louis wanted him. He hoped he wasn’t broken. But footsteps approached his door again and this time the footsteps paused in the doorway. A shaggy head of blond hair poked around the corner and when Niall saw Harry looking at him he grinned.

“Haz,” he said, and he took two steps into the room. He looked good, well rested and bright, and Harry was glad. At least Niall was all right. At least Niall had it in him to smile. “How are you feeling?” Niall asked. “Can I come in?”

“Yeah,” Harry said, more grateful than he could say to no longer be alone. “Please.” Niall smiled, a little dimmer this time, and he knocked the pile of envelopes off the plastic chair in the corner and dragged it with a squeal of metal on tile to the side of Harry’s bed. He sat down hard and the chair squeaked again and Niall said,

“Letters from fans.” He jerked his thumb towards the pile on the floor and Harry felt his jaw drop.

“No,” he said.

“Yeah. We uh…” He paused, rubbing at the back of his neck, and he said, “Do you want the whole gory story or do you want me to spare you until you feel a little better?”

“I feel fine.” And he did; he felt warm and okay and maybe not great but that was all right. 

“Right.” Niall paused and he smiled, his hair covering his face when he bowed his head, and he played with loose strings on Harry’s sheets. “Anyway, when you ran out on us, we told the people waiting we had to cancel the show. They were devastated, of course, they fucking love you, and somehow…they’re crazy. Somehow, they found out the hotel we were in and they brought the front desk fucking pounds of cards for you.”

“No,” Harry said, but Niall nodded.

“Yeah.” He shrugged and he looked up at Harry, his upper lip held between his teeth, and he said, “We canceled the whole European leg of the tour, Haz. Soph is…well, she’s Soph, and she didn’t want to cancel the whole tour just yet so we’re going to have a…a bit of a break, and then maybe we’re going to use the time to work on ourselves, you know? I mean, we’ve hardly spent a day apart in eight years. Zayn is going to stay here, with that…with that girl, and Liam is going home and I’m going home and right now the plan is to come back together next month, when the tour goes back to the states.” He spoke fast and it was all too much to take in but Harry took it in anyway and Niall jerked his head up when the beat of Harry’s heart began to pound faster.

“I’m okay,” Harry assured him. But Niall’s focus stayed firmly on Harry’s heart monitor. Niall didn’t look Harry in the eye when he spoke next.

“Harry…” Niall said. Something weighed him down and sagged his shoulders and Harry wasn’t sure if he wanted to hear it. But Niall cleared his throat and tried his best to keep his voice calm. “You died, you stupid son of a bitch,” he said. “You were fucking dead.”

“What?” No, no, no, there was no way it had been that close. Harry had overdosed before and he was always all right and this time was no different. But Niall shook his head and he wouldn’t look Harry in the eye. 

“Yeah,” Niall said, blinking fast. “You were fucking dead on the fucking floor and your…your lips were blue, Haz.” He touched his own lips with his fingertips and without meaning to Harry mimicked the motion, his fingers brushing the stitches on his lip. “You died. Do you understand that, Haz? There’s no coming back from that. That’s it, that’s the end, and was that what you really wanted? Were you trying to kill yourself, Haz?”

“No,” he immediately replied. “Never.”

“What were you doing then?”

“Trying to escape.”

“Harry, when…when the paramedics couldn’t get you back…fuck.” Niall blinked but it was fruitless and he shamefully brushed away the tears on his cheeks with the back of his hand. “When they couldn’t get you back, I think all of us in there fucking died, too. I know…I know we’ve been fucked up lately, and I know…I know that we’re not perfect, but we couldn’t live without you, Haz. We thought we fucking lost you and the fucking paramedics pounded the shit out of you and you didn’t fucking come back. Do you have any idea what that was like?”

(No, Harry was selfish and he didn’t fucking think, not ever, and it was all his fault that Niall cried and he couldn’t fucking stand it.)

“No,” Harry admitted out loud. 

“I hope you never find out, you selfish, stupid prick.” Harry deserved that and Niall pulled his shirt up over his face to dry his eyes, tears staining the blue cotton at the collar. “Anyway, I’m glad I got to talk to you first. Zayn…he wanted to sleep in here, I swear to God.”

“No,” Harry said, but Niall nodded.

“He panicked, Haz. You didn’t see it.”

“What do you mean?”

“He cried like you broke his damn heart. I would never have believed it if I hadn’t been the one who had to fucking hold him like a damn baby until he calmed down enough to go to bed.” 

“No,” Harry said again because it was the only thing he could say. Zayn cared, he fucking cared, and why did it hurt so badly that lying at death’s door was what it took to bring Zayn back to him?

“Yes,” Niall said. “I could…I could call the other guys and tell them you’re awake; I’m sure they’d come running. Do you want me to?”

“No,” Harry said once more. He enjoyed Niall’s company; he ate it up, but he was scared and he was tired and he wanted more than anything to be alone again. What was wrong with him? 

“Okay,” Niall agreed. He fidgeted again with Harry’s blankets and there was something else but whatever it was, Niall wasn’t going to say it. 

“Niall…” he said, and Niall grimaced. “What aren’t you telling me?”

“Don’t worry about it,” Niall said, and the grin he offered was so phony Harry almost snarled when he said again,

“What aren’t you telling me?” 

“Harry, you need to rest, why don’t I…” Niall stood and he was going to leave and Harry couldn’t let him go without finding out the truth. He had a sick feeling deep in his chest that he knew what was going on but still he prayed that he was wrong. 

“Tell me,” Harry said. “Now.”

“Fuck, Haz, maybe I shouldn’t be the one…”

“Now.”

Niall sat down again and he looked down at Harry’s hand decorated with a needle taped to his skin. “It’s Lou, Haz,” he said, and Harry’s heart skipped a beat that Niall heard. Harry must have heard him wrong but there it was and Niall looked startled at the way Harry’s heart fluttered as panic threatened to rain down on him. 

“Don’t, Jesus…” Niall wanted him to calm down and he wanted his heart to stop racing but this couldn’t fucking be happening and Harry took hold of Niall’s arm and dug his nails in until Niall winced. 

“Where’s Lou, Niall?” he asked, and Niall pulled his arm away and cradled it to his chest. 

“Haz…”

“Where is Lou?” 

“He’s gone, okay? He’s fucking gone, Haz. He left the second he knew you were okay and I don’t know where he went but Soph bought him a plane ticket and he left.”

No, no, no, no, no.

“He wouldn’t just…” Harry said, but the pain in Niall’s eyes told the truth. “He wouldn’t just leave,” he finished anyway. 

“He did, Haz. I’m so fucking sorry.” Niall didn’t know that Harry had begged Sophia to send him away. He had no idea that Harry had asked for this. “Don’t, God, I wish I didn’t have to be the one to tell you.”

“Did he say anything to you before he…before he left?” (The world was ending and Harry didn’t believe in a lot of things but he sure as hell believed in soul mates.)

“No,” Niall said, but that was a lie Harry easily saw through. 

“Tell me.” Harry clenched his fist and there it was, Louis’s gaudy silver ring digging deep into his palm, and it hurt more than Harry could have ever imagined to think that Louis had lied to him when he promised he would never run from him. Niall followed Harry’s gaze and he grimaced when his eyes landed on the ring, his lips tightening. 

“I’m so fucking sorry, Haz. I know he…he meant a lot to you.”

“I was in love with him,” Harry said before he could pull the words back in where they could never see the light of day. It was all over and there was no point in holding the secret close to his chest anymore. “I was in love with him and I didn’t fucking tell him, Niall. Why didn’t I tell him?”

“Haz, no…” Niall said, but it was useless. Harry buried his face in his hands and he willed the agony to go away. But it didn’t, it never did, and it deepened and sunk sharp claws into Harry’s guts and his heart monitor was so fucking loud and Niall looked scared and Harry was sorry he put that look on Niall’s face. “Haz, I’m so sorry.” 

“What did he say?” Harry asked his hands. 

“Haz.” It was a command, Niall telling him to stop, but Harry shook his head. 

“Tell me.”

“I won’t lose you again, Haz. Do you hear me?”

“I hear you.”

Niall took in a deep breath and he said, “He told me to tell you…well.” Niall ducked his head and lifted it again, his expression quizzical, and he said, “He said, ‘Tell him I said don’t ever play my song.’ Now, I don’t know what that means but he was fucked, Haz, crying his fucking eyes out when he said it, and I didn’t say anything back to him because he was gone before I got the chance. And I’m sorry I didn’t try and make him stay.”

“It’s all right,” Harry said because it was all that he could say. It was over. Louis was gone. And Harry had told him he was thinking of introducing The Troves to the song he had written on the fucking airplane to London. He had told Louis that it was his song and that he wanted the boys to hear it and he wanted the world to hear it and then Louis left and he told Harry not to let the song see the light of day. That was all right. That was okay. Harry’s chest heaved and Niall was on his feet before Harry realized he had stopped breathing altogether.

“Fine!” Harry cried as Niall opened his mouth to call for help. “I’m fine.” Niall sat and Niall laid a hand over Harry’s and he was so good and he said,

“Haz, I want you to take care of yourself now. I want you to go home and get better and be still for once in your life. Can you do that for me?” 

“Sure.” (He couldn’t, he wouldn’t, and Niall knew that but he smiled like he believed the lie.) 

“Be better, Haz. The kids need you.” He said it like it was nothing that the room was full of cards written just for him and he stood and he left and that was it, then. Harry was alone. It was over. And there was nothing he could do. 

 

Harry was discharged from the hospital and he met Sophia at the hotel The Troves had left behind and she went with him up to his room. Everyone else had already left, she said, and scattered to every corner of the fucking globe. Harry understood why no one chose to say goodbye but still it hurt and he tried not to let it show. After this Sophia would leave him, too, and she wanted him to go home and be happy and be all right. Sure, he could lie about it and agree to do just that. No problem. Sophia opened the door to Harry’s room and for the first time since nearly asphyxiating on the floor Harry stepped inside. 

It was cold, Louis’s bed neatly made, and Harry stood in shocked silence in the doorway as Sophia busied herself packing up his things. There wasn’t much and she stuffed shirts and jeans and socks into his duffel bag at lightning speed. She tossed in a shirt Harry knew wasn’t his (it belonged to Louis and didn’t Sophia see it was way too small for Harry?) and then she zipped it up, passing it off to him and waiting for him to take it. But in this room Harry had had Louis and it was all too much and Harry sank to the bed with his head in his hands. Sophia stood still with his bag in both hands and when she spoke her voice was gentle.

“I’m sorry he’s gone, Haz.”

“Did you tell him?” Harry asked. “That I wanted him to leave?” Sophia paused for a long time before she told him that she did. “Why?”

“He deserved to know. And you deserve to be happy. I thought maybe it was best to tell him the truth. Tell me I was wrong.” 

He couldn’t and she knew it. “No,” he said. “It’s okay. I’m glad he’s gone.”

“Are you?”

“What do you think?”

“Harry, were you in love with him?” Sophia struck him dumb and he looked up at her, bracing himself for the story he had to tell again.

“Yes,” he said. 

“You only knew him for a couple of weeks, Haz.”

“I know that.” God, did he fucking know. How was it possible that Louis had shattered him in less time than it took the goddamn moon to circle the earth like Harry circled Louis? How was it possible that he taught Harry to believe in love in fewer days than it took to break a shitty habit? It wasn’t possible. But it had fucking happened and it was real and it was crazy what Harry said next. “I have to find him, Soph.”

“Oh, Haz.” The pity in her voice was infuriating and Harry wanted to punch a hole in the wall but he controlled the urge screaming through his head and instead he looked up again at Sophia’s face. 

“Soph, I need him.”

“You hardly knew him.”

(How could she be so cold? There was no way she understood.)

“I knew him.”

“Harry, there are so many people who love you,” Sophia said. 

“No one like him.” Harry’s voice broke on the last word and he was not going to fucking cry but Sophia handed him a tissue from her pocket and he took it and crumpled it in his fist. It was cold in this room without Louis and Harry’s heart was useless in his chest because without Louis there it was empty. How was he even sitting here, alive and breathing, when Louis was a ghost to this godforsaken hotel? 

“I don’t know what else to say,” Sophia said, and when Harry looked at her again she was dabbing at her eyes. “But you have a flight home to catch.”

 

The goodbye was easy. Sophia left him at the airport and she pressed money into his hand and she went the opposite way Harry had to go. She booked him a ticket to JFK because Harry didn’t have a home to go to but New York was the closest thing Harry ever had to the place where he belonged. She booked him a long term stay in a hotel in Lake George, the place where Harry grew up from a kid into the teenage boy who met Zayn and fell in love with music. He would be there for three weeks, alone, until the Head Space tour was to begin again, this time in Las Vegas. 

That was the plan. And it was all they had. So Harry gave Sophia a one armed hug and she told him she loved him and he nodded because he knew and she kissed his cheek and sent him on his way. He stood in line to check his bag with aviator sunglasses perched low on his nose, the florescent lights of the airport making his head spin. He had to take them off and place them in a box to go through security and he slipped them back on the moment his bag was finished being scanned. Behind the dark glasses he felt a little safer; the lenses hid his eyes from the world and as long as they could not see him he could pretend he was a ghost and pretend he was okay with being alone. 

On the plane Harry sat alone and for that he was glad. Sophia had booked him a seat in first class and he was stupid and he sipped champagne as the plane barreled through the night sky. It didn’t matter; it tasted like freedom on his tongue. 

(Freedom from love and freedom from his awful intrusive thoughts and freedom from regaining the feeling of feeling alive.)

The stewardess topped off his glass more than a few times and he kept his damn sunglasses on because they made him invisible. It was cold in New York, the in-flight TV told him, and he was glad his coat was tucked safely under his seat. This was okay. He could do loneliness. It was nothing new to him, after all. Three weeks was nothing at all. Three weeks to recover and be better and try and forget the way Louis smiled at Harry like he was the sun.

Harry left London at 10 PM and arrived at JFK at nearly one in the morning. It was a long walk from the terminal to the baggage claim to outside and Harry buttoned up his coat against the icy air and waited with his bag clutched in his fist. Sophia had arranged for Harry to be picked up and driven to his hotel and just on time the car pulled up to meet him. The drive was short and the driver was quiet and Harry thanked him as he stepped from the car out towards the lobby of his new temporary home. If the woman at the front desk who handed him his room keys thought it strange that he wore sunglasses inside in the middle of the damn night she didn’t say a word. Harry’s room was on the seventh and top floor and the elevator music drove him mad but that was okay. 

Everything was okay. Harry was all right. His room was huge, three times the size of the room he shared with…

Than the room he slept in back in London.

It had a tiny kitchen and a tiny living room and a mahogany dining room table and a massive Jacuzzi in the bathroom. Harry was not one for taking baths but a little drowning sounded good to him. Harry threw his bag into the bedroom and on the walk back to the bathroom he stripped off his clothes and dropped them one by one on the floor. His jeans and his belt hit the floor with a satisfying thump and his shirt followed, and he started the water as hot as it could go and waited for the tub to fill. He peered at himself in the mirror, twisting his neck to get a good look, and the black eye Zayn had given him as a goodbye gift was just starting to change from purple to yellow. Harry tugged at the stitches on his lip and it hurt but all at once he wanted them gone. He pulled the thread from his lip and it stuck and it hurt but one by one he picked out the neat row of sutures and the end result was not so bad. It would scar and Harry would owe Zayn a scar of his own for that, but for now the skin was an angry pink and his stupid lip was puffy and painful with every prod he gave it. 

And then he looked down at his body and he wished he hadn’t. He was too thin and he knew it, his hipbones sharp, and there were fucking bruises in the crooks of his elbows and bruises of a different kind all over his hips and his stomach and his thighs. Louis had a hungry mouth and he loved the taste of Harry’s skin. Disgusted by the marks and the scars on his skin Harry looked away from himself and sank into the tub. The water was too hot and it hurt but that was all right. Harry held his breath and he held in all the sorrow that wanted to leak from anywhere it could, desperate to escape him, and he dropped under the water and stayed there until he saw stars. 

When he emerged, water dripping in his eyes, he did his best to use the shitty hotel soap to wash the memories of gentle touches from his skin. But Louis had touched him everywhere and there was nothing he could do. Harry was stupid and he knew Louis’s name but nothing else. He never even got his damn phone number, and Harry wondered how many boys there were in the world named Louis Tomlinson with stars in their eyes and heat in their hands. 

No. Harry could do this for Louis. He could leave him be. Harry asked for this and maybe it was selfish and mean and cruel but nobody ever told him that love was meant to be fair. It wasn’t. It was messy and it was concert halls and it was backstage and it was underwear on the floor. It was soft kisses and urgent kisses and whispered screams and teeth making marks on lips. 

Harry would write a song about the stupidity of falling in love someday (if) when he got older and learned how to put Louis Tomlinson and London far behind him. Sure, he owed London a tour, but the future was a long time from now and Harry had three weeks to learn again how to breathe. He could do that. Sure thing. There was nothing wrong with needing time and he had all the time in the world. Maybe someday the story of Louis would fall from Harry in an interview and the interviewer wouldn’t believe a word; it was too goddamn remarkable. Louis was larger than life and he was too good to be true and Harry would laugh and pretend not to hurt at the thought that no one would ever know the infamous, beautiful, insatiable Louis Tomlinson but him. 

God, he was stupid. He sank in the tub and he willed himself to drown but he didn’t really want that, did he? So he sputtered back to the surface and the soapy water stung his lip like Louis’s teeth did and God, he was ruined. He locked the door to his miniature oasis and he drew the curtains on the window that gave him a dazzling view of Lake George in all its glory, the leaves on the trees painted bursts of orange and gold. He withdrew from the world and nobody missed him and that was just the way he liked it. He let his phone die and he let his hair grow far too long and he let himself go hungry because leaving the hotel meant entering the world and he wasn’t ready to face it without Louis at his side. 

Harry was okay and he was alive and he had survived a (suicide attempt) drug overdose for the millionth time and that had to mean something. Didn’t it?

 

It was a week and a half before Harry was brave enough to plug his phone back into the wall and watch the messages roll in. He had thirteen texts from Niall, five from Liam, twenty-three from Sophia, and one from Zayn. Harry hesitated for only a moment before opening the text and reading Zayn’s lousy attempt at reaching out.

“I’m sorry,”

the text read, and that was all. 

He had a voicemail from Sophia on top of all the texts he deleted without reading and he held the phone to his ear with his shoulder as he paced around the room to listen to the five minute message.

“Haz,” she said as if he may have forgotten his name. “I swear to God, Haz, if you’re alive and ignoring me I’m going to kill you. I’m worried sick here, wondering if you’re okay, and if I find out you’re alive you’re going to wish you weren’t.” She paused. Sighed. Inhaled. “I don’t mean that,” she said. “Please, God, Haz, I hope you’re all right.” She cleared her throat and Harry padded to the kitchen to fill up the coffeemaker on the counter with water. 

“Anyway,” she said, “I called for a reason. I told you there would be big people at the shows in London, didn’t I? Well, now they’re coming to Vegas. To the first show back. And I thought you ought to know. I thought I should warn you before I see you. They love you, Haz, and I know…I know you guys wanted to call it quits. I know that. But this is an opportunity most people would sell their souls to the devil for, Haz. I hope you think about it…when they offer you a deal. Because they will. They want you and if that’s what you want, I want to give you to them. You deserve…God, you guys deserve the world after all you’ve put each other through.”

Another long moment of silence.

“That’s all I wanted to say. Please, Haz, don’t be dead in that shitty hotel room. Call me before I call them and check in on you like I’m your goddamn mother. Because I will.” Harry almost chuckled but his chest still ached even now and he held it back before it could hurt him. 

“Take care of yourself, Harry. See you in two weeks. Call me before then or I’ll rip your throat out with my bare hands. I love you.” Her voice vanished and Harry listened to the message once again before deleting it; the sound of her voice made him feel just a little less lonely. He put his phone down and ran both hands down the stubble on his cheeks. Without Sophia there to make him shave before each and every show he let his hair grow out and he hated the way it looked. Later he would buy a cheap razor from the hotel store but for now he couldn’t care less that he looked worse than he had in as long as he could remember. Sophia would scream if she saw him, gaunt and pale and shaky. She would scream if she knew what Harry was putting himself through. 

It was stupid. It was crazy. What was a handful of weeks in the grand scheme, the great mess of Harry’s life? How was it possible that a few weeks was enough to break him? Louis was in and out of his life faster than some girls he had strung along in the first days of the band and yet he had left a gaping hole that no one else had. Harry twisted Louis’s ring on his finger and why did Louis wear this thing? It hurt and it never stopped and it was sharp and nothing like Louis. Maybe Louis liked the pain, too. 

Harry could move on. Couldn’t he? Louis was hardly his longest relationship

(the first one to make him question everything he thought he knew)

and maybe the pain was not meant to be felt as long as Harry dragged it out. Maybe he should forgive himself and move on and get used to being alone. 

(But he owed Louis the stars and Louis was the sun and how could Harry remember how to live without the fucking sun?)

Harry Styles was meant to be alone. Harry Styles was famous and adored and not one person knew anything about him anymore. No one knew that he loved the sandpaper feel of stubble in the kisses between his thighs and no one knew he broke the TV in his hotel room and told them to bill him when he saw on TMZ the story of Harry fucking Styles and his great big suicide attempt. 

(They were revolting and they aired a special following Harry’s hospitalization titled “10 Stars Who Died Using Speedballs” and Harry felt like throwing up.)

Harry fucking Styles was never more famous than the moment he died on a hotel floor. Maybe it bothered him but maybe it didn’t and he didn’t fucking care. TMZ chased the only person they could find who hadn’t fled the moment Harry was brought back to life and they followed Eleanor from their hotel to a cab where she kept her mouth shut and shot both her middle fingers up at the cameras. Harry owed her for not speaking out. He supposed he owed all of them. 

Harry never ever searched online for his name. He knew what people said about him. But cooped up alone in a hotel room, he couldn’t help himself. The first few results were news stories, pictures of the hotel in London, and Harry scrolled past the pictures of the hospital he was brought back in and opened a link to a music forum.

“Will The Troves recover from this?” one poster asked. 

“I have a feeling they’re pretending that the tour is still on,” another replied. “I have a feeling they’re going to announce that it’s all over and they’re breaking up. No band can survive what they have.”

“It’s in their blood,” somebody else protested as if they fucking knew. “There’s no way they’ll ever quit now.” 

“You didn’t see them,” a fan that had been standing outside the venue in London and watched Harry arrive back from the hospital with a black eye and a stitched up lip. “Harry looked dead. I could tell something was wrong before they even told me. When he ran out he ran out right by me and I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone so scared.”

Disgusted, Harry closed the browser down and threw his phone onto his bed. How dare they pretend they knew him? He wasn’t scared of anything and they thought they fucking knew that he was broken before he even knew himself. He only got through a handful of the cards his fans had sent him before he burned the rest of them in the fireplace in the living area of his fucking room. They were sympathetic and they loved him and they urged him to get better and they begged him to be okay and to keep playing and to never stop being exactly the wreck he was.

Misery made art, after all, and the fans were not stupid and they knew that as well as he did. 

Harry’s phone rang from his bed and he didn’t want to answer it but it was a ringtone he had not heard in a long time. It was the rock song Zayn had picked to be his ringtone and his alone years ago and Harry couldn’t tell if it was real yet or not but he scooped his phone into his palm and Zayn was calling him. He hesitated over the screen with his thumb, heart thumping, and then before he could change his mind he answered.

“What?” he said, and the silence on the other line was almost too loud to bear. 

“Hello to you, too.”

“What do you want, Zayn?”

“I can’t believe you answered. Do you know how frantically Soph has been calling me to see if I’ve heard from you?”

Harry did not reply. He did not want to hear it, whatever Zayn had to say, and he was about to hang up and smash his phone against the wall when Zayn said, 

“Harry, what do you hope to gain from hiding?”

“Fuck you,” Harry spat in reply. 

“Yeah, fuck me,” Zayn said, exhausted. 

“I have nothing to say to you, Zayn.” What the hell was he thinking, answering the phone?

“Then you listen to me.” Zayn was stubborn and maybe it was not his fault that everything had fallen apart. Harry let him speak. 

“Fine,” he said, and Zayn drew in a deep breath. 

“I’m sorry,” Zayn said, and for a long moment that was all. “I’m sorry, and I know saying it won’t fixing anything. I knew you were going to self-destruct and from day one I think I knew you were going to die, but nothing…nothing could have prepared me for seeing you lying on the floor with your face blue.” Zayn was good and he was being honest and maybe Harry appreciated it. He wasn’t sure. “And I’m so mad at you that I don’t even know what to say first. Harry, all you do is break things.”

He knew that. He knew that and still it hurt when Zayn said it. Breaking things was what he did best (the hotel was yet to replace his TV and maybe that was for the best.) 

“Harry, are you there?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t know why I called. But I’m glad I did. I can’t even tell you how good it feels to hear your voice, man.”

“Right.”

“Are you coming back? Are you coming back to us when the break’s over?”

“They don’t think I’m going to make it, Zayn.”

“Who?”

“The fans.”

“Ah.”

“I know.”

Zayn was quiet until he said, “They just want what we all do. We want you to stop hurting. And Harry, if leaving the band is what’s best for you, that’s what we all want.”

“That’s not true.”

Zayn was quiet. “You’re right, I guess. I know I talked a lot of shit and I know it’s…it’s my fault, what you put yourself through, but I know…oh boy.” He exhaled sharply and he coughed on the other line (to hide a sob; was Zayn crying?) “Uh, I know it’s not the end for The Troves. Do you…do you ever get that feeling?”

“Yes.”

It was true; Harry didn’t want this to be the end, either. He wanted solitude and he wanted the smell of cinnamon and sugar and he wanted to be far away from vice after awful vice. But he was Harry fucking Styles and he was born to be onstage. Maybe he was born to die there, too, but what did that matter? Harry had already been to hell and back. Dying was hard but being alone was harder and Harry said, 

“Zayn, I think I have a new song for us.”

“A new song?”

“Yes.”

“I’m not surprised,” Zayn said. “Misery is art, isn’t it?”

Zayn knew he was miserable, he fucking knew, and that was all right because Zayn was miserable, too. 

“Right.”

Dying was hard but loneliness was harder and Harry said next, “Come see me. We can work the song out together, yeah?”

Zayn was quiet for a long time. “Yeah.”

 

Zayn arrived at Harry’s door straight from London the very next day with his duffel bag and his guitar slung over one shoulder. He looked good and it made Harry glad to see color in his cheeks. He had gotten his hair cut and it no longer fell almost to his shoulders; it was short at the sides with a ridiculous swoop on top and Harry thought it didn’t suit him well but he opened his arms and Zayn pulled him into an awkward one armed hug. Zayn looked around the room as he dropped his bag and Harry shut the door behind him. 

“So this is the old hideout.”

“It is.” Zayn and Harry had been here before, a thousand years ago when they were kids and they vacationed together with their parents. Zayn’s mom had snuck them booze and they got drunk enough to get kicked out of the hotel pool and grounded to their rooms for the rest of the trip. But that was okay. It was all right. Because here they had discovered the thing that bound them together for the next decade- music. 

“Where’s, uh…” Harry tried and failed to come up with the name of the girl Zayn brought to London, hairband girl. Zayn winced.

“She went home,” he said. “I made her go. She didn’t want to but it’s not good for her. I’m not good for her.” And the closeness Zayn’s story bore to Harry’s at that moment almost made him want to cry. “Look,” Zayn said, and Harry shook from his head the thoughts of all the awful things they had in common. “I’m sorry about her and her friends, I just…” Whatever convoluted reason he had for his roaring jealousy towards Louis, Harry did not want to hear it.

“It’s okay,” Harry said. “I don’t need an explanation.” 

“I owe you one.”

“I owe you a hell of a lot more.” Zayn was good and he ducked his head because he knew Harry was right and he knew their friendship had died and been resuscitated more times than either of them could count. Zayn was good and he changed the subject.

“Tell me about your song,” he said, and Harry had direct orders to hide the song away but he was stubborn and nowhere near as good at obeying as Louis was. Harry showed Zayn the lyrics, scribbled in the notebook Harry had never returned to Sophia, and Zayn was quiet for a long time. 

“It’s about him, isn’t it?”

“Yes.” Zayn handed back the notebook and he didn’t have his hair to hide his deep brown eyes behind anymore. 

“I’m so sorry,” he said, and that was it. Zayn helped him craft a chorus and he strummed at the guitar, building the words Harry had written on an airplane into a song that could shake the clouds from the sky. It soared, and Harry could already imagine how it would sound played before an audience of ten thousand in Las Vegas. 

“Harry,” Zayn said. “I can’t believe after all this time you still have this much to say.”

“Misery is art,” Harry shrugged. 

“And you have a goldmine, then. Right?”

“Right.”

It was strange, sitting again side by side with Zayn as they wrote, heads nearly touching, until the sun hung low in the sky and there was no light left in which to look outside and see the lake beneath them. Harry never thought he would feel like this again, like him and Zayn were a team and that together they could do anything. 

“Are you sure you want this out there?” Zayn said. “Once it’s out there, there’s no taking it back. Even if you never release it, Haz, there’s going to be kids recording it from the front row.”

“I know that.” Zayn looked good and Zayn looked healthy and Harry wondered how long it would last once they stood back onstage in front of a crowd. 

“He’s going to hear it sooner or later.” Zayn didn’t say his name and it was just as well. Harry didn’t want to hear it. Let Louis be a mysterious and faceless _him_ to Zayn and let him be the _you_ in the lyrics on the page. No one had to know that misery bred art and no one had to know Harry was anything but an exceptionally good actor and player of make-believe. Harry could craft songs about things like heartbreak because he was an artist and that was what artists did. It was not because he knew firsthand how it felt to die and how it felt to love and how it felt to shatter hearts into tiny, glistening shards. 

To Zayn’s statement Harry nodded. “I know.”

“You think this is going to make him come back to you, don’t you.” He said it without question because he knew that was what Harry hoped for. It was stupid and Harry didn’t know the first thing about love but he knew one thing. His words had drawn Louis to him before. Maybe he could do it again.

“I don’t know,” was what Harry finally replied. Zayn left with the promise of keeping in touch and things would never be the same between them but maybe that was how it was meant to be. Zayn gave him another one armed hug, dragging Harry to his chest (he was so damn strong and Harry’s nose collided painfully with his shoulder but that was all right), and he left and all at once the loneliness began to creep in again. 

Harry didn’t know the first thing about love but he had just penned his very first love song. He put the notebook away under his bed and he made himself a shitty cup of coffee and he sat out on the balcony of his bedroom under a down comforter from the bed. The mug in his hands kept him warm and he wished he had a cigarette or a bottle of Jack or something simple to take the edge out of the sharpness of the cold. 

(Louis was so warm and Harry was fucking cold and he had the feeling warmth was not something he was meant to feel.)

He twisted the silver and emerald ring over and over around his finger and then he put his mug down and slipped it off. It glistened in his palm and he thought about throwing it as hard as he could and letting it splash into the lake. But it belonged to someone, a boy he loved, and maybe he would get the chance to give it back. He put it back on the ring finger of his left hand and he curled his fingers into a fist and there it was, that familiar jab of pain that came with the ring and the reminders of the boy who used to wear it.

“For good luck,” he had said. For good luck. It was ridiculous but maybe Harry had believed him. Louis made Harry believe a lot of things. 

(“Maybe not ever again,” he had said, telling Harry he was not going to run away.)

And then he had. Harry had begged Sophia to send Louis away, to send him home, and Harry wondered exactly where home was. Maybe Louis had picked his job back up and moved back into his apartment in New York City. Or maybe he was gone. Maybe, like Harry, he wanted to disappear. A couple of weeks was nothing in the grand scheme of a life but it was enough time to start to wonder what it felt like to have a home to go to. Maybe, like Harry, Louis was lost.

And it was Harry’s fault. Harry was a joke, a lousy excuse for a friend and a front man and a soul mate and a lover and a junkie. Nothing he did came out right and nothing he said made any difference. Self-loathing could only get him so far. Maybe it was time to let it go. Maybe it was time to stop hiding and do something about the hole in his hollow chest. He couldn’t do anything right but he could give it a try. 

Before he could change his mind he was moving. He went inside and poured his coffee down the sink in the kitchenette. Louis did not give up on Harry without a fucking fight. And Harry was not about to give up on him now. He threw his things into his duffel bag, tossing shirts and socks and the notebook from under his bed. He could hear his breath wheezing in and out of him but not much else. The world was quiet for once around him and he was glad. He packed away his toothbrush and he laced up his Chuck Taylors and before he could think (thinking was not his goddamn forte) he was in the elevator and he was in the lobby and he was checking out of the hotel. Before he could change his mind (flightiness was not something to be proud of but it was one thing he had expertise in) he asked the woman at the front desk where he could rent a car. 

Before he could think he was in a shiny new Mercedes and the GPS was set to Grand Central Station. New York City was a big place but Harry was stupid and he was going to try. It was nine o’clock at night and he bought a Red Bull at a gas station and he quit yawning by the time he hit the highway. He would hit the city by one in the morning and from there he had no idea what the hell he was going to do but at least he was doing something. 

It was stupid but he turned on the radio and he pressed past the country station and classic rock, stumbling over the pop station and landing on the station that always gave The Troves a chance. And there they were. Harry’s voice wailed over the radio, filling the car with so much noise Harry could barely keep his head from spinning, and he grimaced but he remembered the first time he ever heard this song on the radio. It was one of his favorites, a fuzzy little number from 2008, and the song had caused enough of a spike in album sales that Sophia threw a party and Harry spent the night doing what he did best, barfing in the fucking bathroom. 

Harry’s own voice echoed in his ears and the open road was the long ride home and maybe this time he could do something right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, I'd love comments on my tumblr @ ourl0veisgod! Thank you for reading. :)


	9. Chapter 9

New York City was never asleep but the city was quiet as Harry emerged into the night from Grand Central Station. The mid-October air was icy on his skin and he drew the collar of his coat up to cover his ears but wind whipped at his nose and at his eyes. Had it really only been two weeks since he left this city behind? There was no way; it was a lifetime ago. But he knew the truth and the damn city never changed. It looked just the same as it always did and Harry was the only thing that had changed. With nowhere to go he wandered from the station where he parked the rental car to Times Square. The lights inside each building were out but the lights outside were gleaming garish shades of yellow and red and blue. There weren’t many people on the street and everyone who walked by gave Harry a wide berth. Maybe he looked threatening, his collar popped up like a fucking vampire’s cloak, but that was fine by him. He didn’t want anyone to notice him anyway. 

New York fucking City never changed and Harry stuffed his fists deep into his coat pockets and tried to keep walking to dim the numbness burning into his thighs and his knees from the cold. In the morning he would buy a scarf to wind around his throat and maybe a pair of gloves in fur lined leather to keep him warm but for now he shivered and shook because it was all that he could do. Nobody looked at him. Nobody knew he was Harry Styles, the man who nearly became number eleven on TMZ’s list of dead fucking celebrities, right below River Phoenix and fucking Philip Seymour Hoffman. 

New York City never fucking changed. Harry paced around and around the block that was Times Square until his legs ached. He bought himself breakfast at a shitty twenty-four hour fast food joint and ate curled up on the steps outside of Foxwoods Theatre. He knew this place well and he watched people walk by as the sky began to show tinges of deep blue within the blackness. He crumpled up his empty paper bag and tossed it as the blue changed to brilliant pinks and reds. By the time the sun came up Harry came alive with it, hopping off the steps and brushing himself off and heading out in search of an open coffeehouse with a bathroom and a decent cup of coffee. 

“You look so familiar,” the young girl at the coffee shop by Grand Central said.

“Yeah,” Harry said as she handed him a steaming paper cup of black coffee. “You probably saw me die on TMZ.”

The girl’s cheeks went red and her eyes flew open wide when she realized he was right, and she mumbled an apology and disappeared into the back of the shop. That was all right. Harry understood. He sat in the corner of the shop nearest to the door and nursed his coffee like a glass of rum and coke and then the girl was before him with a tiny pink plate in her hands. 

“Here,” she said, still blushing. “You look a little hungry.” He was sure he looked a lot worse than hungry but gratefully he took the delicate sugar crusted muffin she handed him and thanked her. “No problem,” she said. “Just eat it, please. It’s cinnamon apple.”

“No problem,” Harry replied. A group of men in business suits and mismatched ties came into the shop in a swirl of wind and the sound of the bell over the door and the girl smiled at Harry and made her way back to the counter. Harry caught her looking at him and he picked the top off the muffin to appease her, but the moment he brought it to his mouth he could smell the cinnamon he had grown accustomed to smelling on Louis’s skin. The girl was kind and she watched him apprehensively and for her benefit he took a bite. His stomach turned, the sugar overwhelming, but he was stubborn and he was not going to let something as stupid as a fucking muffin in a coffee shop remind him of Louis. He was not. 

By the time the men left the shop in another flurry of icy wind and the girl returned to Harry he had finished the muffin and left only crumbs on the china plate. 

“Thanks,” Harry said, “for that. You didn’t have to.”

“I know.” The girl took up his plate and held it in one hand, studying him like everyone always did with her head cocked to the side. 

“What?” Harry asked, looking up at her as she looked curiously down at him.

“You look different in person than I imagined,” she said. “I don’t mean to freak you out or anything but when I was a kid…” 

(God, Harry was old, this girl only eighteen at the most and was a child when she had first heard Harry sing.)

“I always wanted to see you but my mom never let me. I…” She laughed, her nose crinkling up, and she blushed again as she said, “I pined over you through all of middle school. This is embarrassing. But I did! And I just think you’re a lot different than I ever expected you to be.”

“Is that a good thing?”

“You’re just quiet. And a lot smaller than I thought.” Harry couldn’t help it; he chuckled. She was cute in a young, high school sweetheart sort of way and she laughed with him in return. “Sorry,” she said. “You’d think with all the stars you meet in this place I’d stop babbling like an idiot.” There was a time that meeting a fan would send Harry into hysterics. He couldn’t handle it; he’d rather run away than ever speak to someone who yearned to know him. But here he was and he was okay and his stomach hurt but that was all right. 

“You don’t sound like an idiot,” Harry assured her. Her blush deepened and she wiped her hands on the pink apron she wore that matched perfectly the plate in her hand. 

“Well, anyway,” she said. “It was nice to meet you. I’m sorry for bothering you.”

“No bother,” Harry said. He thanked her again for the muffin he was pretty sure was going to come up despite his best efforts and she smiled bright when he said his goodbyes and stepped out into the brand new daylight. The city was alive and so was Harry. He knew exactly how to get back to the apartment Louis had led him to a thousand years ago. All he had to do was make himself do the walking it took to get there. 

He bought a thick scarf in Times Square and wound it around his throat, buttoning up his coat around it, and the only parts of him still cold were his knees and his nose. That was all right. He could handle the cold. But all he wanted was warmth.

(Maybe he was homesick for nothing but the warmth of Louis’s skin.)

He knew exactly how to get to the apartment building and all he could do was pray that home was where Louis went. There was nothing else he could do but hope. The walk was long and his legs ached and the cold stung painfully at the freshly healed scar Zayn had punched into his lip. But all he could do was keep walking. He owed it to Louis because he owed Louis an apology and sutures for his broken heart because the last thing Harry had ever wanted to do was break Louis. 

But Harry did what he always did best and he was a fucking idiot to let things get as far as they had and he was selfish and he let Louis fall in love with him. He was poison and Louis was beautiful and Harry would do anything he could, flipping the world upside down just to find him. Harry was not scared of anything but he was terrified of Louis. Harry could survive a drug overdose and withdrawals and agony, but he wouldn’t survive if Louis turned him away. He knew that. Part of him thought maybe he shouldn’t even try. He should leave Louis alone; he owed him that. But he was so fucking stupid and he kept on walking because even if it was for the last time he had to see Louis smile at him again. 

He was desperate for Louis, he was fucking gone for him, and with the taste of cinnamon on his tongue he walked by the concert venue without looking up at the sign that once announced three sold out shows by The Troves. He could do this. He would do this. And if Louis wasn’t here and Louis was gone…he didn’t have it in him to plan for the possibility. 

(He wouldn’t survive; he couldn’t survive, but maybe this was how it was supposed to be.)

And then there it was. Louis’s apartment building loomed towards Harry and he craned his neck to stare up through the glaring sun at the roof where he had stood and decided he was invincible if he had Louis. Maybe he still was, because he could still hear the way Louis cried his name and called him baby over and over again as his heart stopped and stuttered and died. The front door was locked and without the code to get inside Harry pressed the tiny silver button to be buzzed into the lobby. The door clicked open and Harry was greeted by the landlord, a man with a bushy gray mustache and messy gray hair. 

“Are you here to look at the apartment for rent?” the man asked, and Harry’s stomach dropped. 

(No, no, no, no, no.)

“Uh,” Harry managed as the lump in his throat tried to strangle him. “No. No, I was looking for the person who lived there.”

“Ah,” the man said. “The little fruity one, yeah?” Harry’s hands balled into fists and it fucking hurt, Louis’s ring stung, and he nodded tersely because it was all that he could do.

“Louis,” he said. “Louis Tomlinson.”

“Right.” The man waved one hand and he said, “Sorry you missed him. He left a couple of weeks ago, out of the blue, and didn’t come back.”

“You have no idea where he went?”

“Kid,” the man said as if he had any fucking right, “this is New York City. People don’t tend to stick around in a place like this for long. What am I, the zookeeper of the animals who live here?”

“No,” Harry said. “Forget it. Thanks for letting me in.” The man didn’t say another word as Harry burst back out through the door with blood pounding painfully in his head. New York City never changed and Harry crunched over leaves on the sidewalk and bumped into a woman who shouted at him to watch where he was walking and it didn’t really matter.

Louis was gone. Harry was in the city where he had found him and now Harry was alone. Nothing ever changed and Harry deserved to make the long walk back to his car on East 42nd street alone. Maybe that was simply how his life was meant to go. Harry was mean and he had broken Louis’s heart and in return Louis broke his promise and Louis ran away. 

(Why had Harry let this happen; how could he have been so stupid as to think maybe this time things would be different?)

With a page ripped from his notebook burning a hole in his pocket Harry made his way back to the train station where his stupid gaudy rental car waited. He was impulsive and he never, ever thought things through. One glance at his phone screen showed him thirteen missed calls from Sophia. He deleted her new messages without listening to a single one. He would pay for it later when they met again in Vegas but for now he could ignore her because ignoring responsibilities was just what Harry did best. 

He stumbled over a crack in the sidewalk and caught himself with one hand on the side of a brick building. He apologized shortly to the man he nearly bowled over and for a long moment he leaned on the building and tried to catch his breath. It was hard. It was impossible. But he drew in a long breath that whistled through his teeth and not one person passing by paused to glance his way and that was exactly how he wanted it. 

New York City was a dizzyingly massive place and suddenly Harry felt very, very small. He was no one; he was just one person, and what did he think he could accomplish by dragging himself back to the start? It was stupid and it was over and Harry was God-awful at a lot of things and love topped the list. People passed through Harry’s life at lightning speed and did he really think Louis would be any different?

(He did.)

Did he really think Louis wouldn’t see right through him?

(He knew it was too much to hope for.)

But Harry raised his head because he had to and he had to keep going until he found somewhere he felt okay. It wasn’t here (he thought it might be) and maybe leaving the hotel on the lake was the worst mistake he ever made. 

No. Keeping Louis’s ring was the worst. Losing Louis was the worst. Telling Sophia he wanted Louis out of his life was even worse. Who did he think he was? He was alone and he was lonely and then all at once a flash of red caught his eye. Harry lunged off the building so fast he saw stars because maybe it was all over but there he was. Louis was buttoned up in the coat Harry had bought him in London and he was so fucking gorgeous and he hadn’t seen Harry yet but he was heading Harry’s way. And then he looked up and it was all fucking over because he caught sight of Harry and shock crossed his face as he went white. Louis stopped walking and a man with a black leather briefcase smacked into his back and sent him reeling to stay on his feet. And then he spun on his heels and once again he ran away.

But Harry was here and he was alive and the last time he saw Louis he had pushed him away but he was done with pushing and he was ready to pull and his knees fucking ached but he chased after him. Louis weaved through the crowd and Harry broke into a run and he was nearly a block behind but Louis bumped into stranger after stranger, graceless and clumsy, and Harry began to close the distance between them. Not once did Louis look back. It was fucking cold and the sun stung Harry’s eyes but the red fucking coat was a beacon and Harry followed. 

The air burned icy in his lungs and he was close enough to Louis to grab him if he wanted but he didn’t. He followed on his heels and he had no idea where Louis was running to but nothing was going to stop him from chasing after. And Louis dodged into an alley and Harry followed him and Louis darted both arms out and he slammed Harry to the brick wall and pinned him there with his hands. 

“Who the fuck do you think you are?” Louis asked, all fury and fire and hard edges. He was beautiful, he was lovely, and Harry hadn’t realized how hungrily he had been pining for him until once again the smell of him filled his head. 

When Harry didn’t answer Louis shook him. “Who the fuck do you think you are?” Louis barked again. His hands hurt on Harry’s shoulders and the marks Harry’s mouth left on his throat had faded but maybe he still belonged to him and him alone. There were dark circles under Louis’s crystal clear blue eyes, the subjects of the song Of the Color of the Sky, and he had no idea what was coming and Harry wanted to tell him but he held his tongue. 

“You look good,” was all Harry came up with in reply, and the anguish on Louis’s face lit a fire in Harry’s broken, battered heart. 

“You look like shit,” Louis replied. Harry knew that. He nodded. He fucking knew that. 

“I know.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Looking for you.” Louis was in pain, Louis was in agony, but Harry was, too, and he had no idea what to do. Harry let his eyes trace the contours of Louis’s face and the curve of his rosy lips and the pink spots high on his cheeks. Louis was so small but he held Harry tight against the wall and stood on his tiptoes to keep from having to look up at him. 

“Why?”

“I love you.” And there it was. Zayn had warned him, Zayn had told him that there was no going back and there was no reeling it back in once he said it. But he did it and it was all over and Louis’s face fell and his shining eyes went wide.

“Fuck you!” Louis cried, and he let go of Harry and his jaw was set tight enough to make veins jut out blue in his temples as he shoved with both hands and Harry’s back hit the wall. “Fuck you! What gives you the right to say that to me? What gives you the fucking right?” He was sharp, fury burning in his face, and Harry had never seen him like this before. He was past the point of holding it in and Harry understood the feeling. He was, too. 

“I love you,” he said. “I love you, I fucking love you.” But it was too much and the words hurt as they poured from him and Louis drew his hands into fists and desperately Harry wanted Louis to hit him. He deserved it and he wanted it but Louis was tough, far braver than Harry, and instead of lashing out with his fists he growled and slammed his eyes shut. 

“You don’t get to say that to me,” he said. “You shut that door. It’s over. It’s gone.” His words made no sense because here he was and here Harry was here and why couldn’t they build a home within each other? 

“You left me in London, Lou.”

“Because you asked me to! Sophia told me and I didn’t believe her but she told me and what choice did I fucking have? You didn’t want me anymore and so I left. She said you begged her to send me away. Is that true, Haz? Did you fucking beg her?”

“Yes,” Harry replied. He was despicable and Louis opened his eyes and with both hands he shoved Harry again. This time his head bounced off the wall and this time he saw stars and it didn’t fucking matter. 

“You’re a coward, Harry! A fucking coward! If you loved me you should have told me! But you didn’t! You hid and you hid and why the hell did you do that?”

“I am a coward.” Louis snarled and he was electric. “But I came back for you, didn’t I?”

“Why couldn’t you just leave me alone?” Louis was not crying, not yet, but his voice was thick with pain and Harry knew the feeling. 

“I need you.”

“Fuck you!” Louis’s screaming caught the attention of the people walking by but not one person stopped to watch the scene unfold. Every person who walked by ducked their heads and walked away. Harry would, too, if he had the choice. “Fuck you, with your fucking self-loathing and your lyrics and your endless selfish moaning!” Louis slung words at Harry that were supposed to hurt and dig in deep and they did. They did. 

“Lou…” Louis lunged for Harry again and threw him with all his might into the wall. The bricks were cold at the back of Harry’s head and he felt his brain all but rattle in his head as he let Louis shake him like a rag doll. 

“You died, Harry!” Louis roared. With every word he slammed Harry against the bricks and Harry deserved it and he did not make a move to fight back. Tears shone in Louis’s eyes and Harry’s whole body ached and he missed the way Louis held the crook of his elbow on the very first night they met. 

“You fucking died, you self-absorbed fuck! How did you think that would affect your friends? Affect me?” 

(He knew the story well now, told over and over by Sophia and Zayn and Niall; he knew he was choking on his own spit and his chest was heaving and his lips were blue; he fucking knew it all and nothing he could do for the rest of his life could make the image of his death fade from their memories.)

“I don’t think,” Harry said. “I don’t.” He wanted Louis to hit him; he needed Louis to break something with his fists. 

“Neither do I,” Louis said, his face twisted in pain. 

Not thinking was Harry’s specialty and he said again, “I love you.”

“You have no right to say that to me,” Louis spat.

“You’re wearing the coat I bought you.” Louis sneered and looked down at Harry’s hands and he said,

“You’re wearing my ring.” 

“You gave it to me.” Louis pressed his hands deep into Harry’s shoulders and it hurt and it hurt but Harry would not tell him so. Every move Louis made hurt him, after all, and there was nothing he could do. 

“Why did you come here?” Louis asked.

“I’m better when you are around.”

“Don’t spit lyrics at me and pretend it makes this better!” Louis was breathing hard and his cheeks were pink and he looked gorgeous but like he had been having trouble sleeping. Harry knew the feeling. “Who the fuck do you think you are?”

“I don’t know about you,” Harry said, shocked at how easy it was to tell the truth. “But I think I might be the love of your life.” And there it was. Louis stood, pressing Harry to the wall, and he exhaled so sharply Harry felt his breath wash over his face. They were close but they could be closer; Harry needed to be closer. He threw his hands out and he took hold of Louis by his hips and he pulled Louis to him before Louis could react. They stood together in the alley and Louis wasn’t breathing and it was stupid how much it hurt. 

“You don’t get to pull me in anymore, Haz,” Louis said, but his voice had taken on a husky edge and his eyes were half lidded and dark. “Why couldn’t you let me be? I was going to pretend you stayed dead and that would have been the easy way.”

“I’m alive,” Harry said, close to Louis’s ear. “And I love you.”

“Don’t say that.” Anguish painted Louis’s voice shades of blue and he tried to push off from Harry’s chest with his elbows but Harry held him tight. Louis was strong but Harry wouldn’t survive if he let go. He wouldn’t fucking survive and he knew it. “You don’t get to say that anymore.” Harry remembered the way Louis sounded when he looked Harry in the eye and told him, “Mine.” 

Louis wrestled away from Harry and he had no choice but to let him go. 

“Where are you staying, Lou?” Harry asked because there was nothing else he could say.

“Sophia put me up in a hotel. Until I can get a job. You uprooted my life, if you’ve forgotten.”

“No,” Harry said. “I remember.” Louis looked at him and he looked at Louis and maybe this was okay and maybe this was salvageable. Maybe it was worth saving. 

“Where were you when I needed this, Haz?” Louis said, and Harry wasn’t so sure. “Why couldn’t you stop running from me for long enough to figure out that you…that you felt that way about me?”

“I’m a coward,” Harry said, and Louis sneered because it was a flimsy and shitty excuse. 

“You’re a filthy goddamn coward,” Louis agreed. He was no longer yelling and his voice was low, low, low and his eyes flashed in the sun and he looked damn good and Harry wanted to kiss him. 

“I love you,” Harry said, and Louis turned away from him but he did not run.

“And I’m stupid for you,” Louis replied. He kicked at the wall with his sneakers that matched Harry’s perfectly and he kept his back to him. Harry deserved that. He did.

“Why couldn’t you have stayed dead, Haz?” Louis asked. 

“Is that what you really would have wanted?”

“No,” Louis said, “but it sure as hell might have been easier.”

“Would you have missed me?”

“For the rest of my life.”

“Would you have cried?”

Louis ducked his head and Harry knew he was smirking when he said, “I don’t ever cry.” 

“I love you,” Harry said, and Louis turned to face him with his hands in the pockets of his coat. 

“I know,” Louis said. 

“Are you going to run from me?”

Louis thought about it and he tilted his head back and the bruises from Harry’s mouth were muted yellow and green on his throat. 

“Not right now,” he said. “Come with me.”

 

Sophia was good and she had spared no expense for Louis. He was holed up in a hotel perilously close to the chaos of Times Square and he greeted the doorman who pulled open the gaudy golden doors with one hand. 

“This place is way too much for me,” Louis said as they made their way through the lobby. Harry craned his neck to look to the golden ceiling and the chandeliers dripping crystals from the ceiling. It was remarkable, the beauty of the place, and Harry owed Sophia for giving Louis something so special. 

Harry wanted to tell Louis he was too much for him but he didn’t. 

“I’m on the fourteenth floor,” Louis scoffed in the elevator. “The view isn’t much but the world sure looks small from my room.” Louis was small and so was the elevator and Harry had forgotten the heat between them, burning in his guts, and by the time Louis led the way out of the elevator towards his room Harry was itching to grab Louis by the hips and bite kisses into his hips. 

Louis’s room was small but it was stunning, paintings on the white walls and the furniture antiqued in shades of red and black. Harry wanted to lunge for Louis but Louis was cautious and he kept his eyes on Harry, walking backwards into the room and reaching around Harry to lock the door behind him. Just like Harry’s temporary home in Lake George, here there was a miniscule living area with a red couch and a TV and a fireplace. Harry wanted the bedroom; all he wanted was the goddamn bedroom.

“So this is home,” Louis shrugged. The ghosts of sleepless nights on his face were harder to see in the dim light coming from sconces on the wall. Harry resisted the urge but only just to say,

“You’re my home.” Instead he said, “I love you,” because he was never going to tire of saying it, and Louis threw his hands up and scowled.

“Fuck off,” he said, and Harry said,

“Make me.” The noise Louis made in reply made Harry’s stomach do somersaults, and then Louis was all over him. Again he slammed Harry to the wall and again Harry’s head bounced off and again he didn’t fucking feel it. But this time Louis crashed his mouth into Harry’s and nothing else mattered but the sweet intoxication of the taste on his lips. Louis was furious and Louis was rough, his hands keeping Harry pinned to the wall by his wrists, and he took Harry’s lip between his teeth and bit down hard. It hurt, it fucking hurt, and Harry was wrecked already and Louis whimpered when he moaned. 

“Goddammit, Haz,” Louis whimpered, and his hips met Harry’s as he kissed him. 

“I love you,” Harry breathed, and Louis groaned. “I love you.”

“Shut up.” Louis’s mouth was gone and Harry opened his eyes to find him again but then Louis was at his throat and there was nothing he could do. Louis kissed him and kissed him and kissed him and Harry was powerless against Louis’s strong hands keeping him on the wall. Louis sucked kisses into Harry’s neck and Harry had no idea something could feel so impossibly good. It hurt, it fucking hurt, and Louis didn’t stop even when he cried out,

“Louis, Louis, please.” He had no idea what he was begging for but Louis did. He swayed his hips and it wasn’t fucking possible but they moved closer together, Harry’s head bouncing off the white wall. Louis groaned in Harry’s ear, the sound alone making him so fucking hard he thought he might explode. This was right; this was good; this was exactly where he was supposed to be. “Love you, love you, love you.”

Louis did not reply but that was okay. His palms were sweaty over Harry’s wrists and his face was hot and his cheeks pink and his lips were so fucking hungry on Harry’s throat. Louis arched his back and they were so close they may as well have been one goddamn person and Harry felt desperation in Louis’s lips as they parted and Louis’s tongue and then his teeth found his ear. 

“Say it again, you fucking coward,” Louis dared him, and Harry obeyed. Obeying Louis was all he ever wanted to do.

“I love you,” Harry whined, fully aware of how he sounded. He sounded destroyed and he sounded gone. He was gone, gone, gone for Louis and that was okay; that was okay. 

“Again,” Louis growled in his ear. 

“I love you.”

Louis groaned and it was the sexiest sound Harry had ever heard and he had to get Louis to the bedroom before he unraveled right before his eyes. But Louis had other plans and he released Harry’s wrists only to take hold of Harry by the front of his coat and dig his fingers into the fabric, searching for and popping open the buttons one by one. The coat hit the floor and Louis dragged his off to follow and dropped it on top of Harry’s. They looked good together on the carpet; Louis belonged with him and that was okay. That was okay. 

Louis lunged for Harry and his mouth was so sweet and his hands were sweaty as he took hold of the hem of Harry’s T-shirt and tore it up over his head. That, too, hit the floor, and if Louis saw the bruises Harry’s death brought to his chest he ignored them. Louis got tangled up in his own shirt as he pulled it off and he tossed it to the floor, his hair a beautiful mess. Harry let his eyes rove over the heaving muscles of Louis’s chest and Louis watched him watching, and Louis’s lips parted as together they squared off. 

“Fuck,” Louis moaned, and Harry couldn’t agree more. He took hold of Harry’s face in both hands and he kissed him savagely, his tongue finding Harry’s. “Fuck.” Louis tore his mouth from Harry’s and he nearly fell on his ass kicking off his shoes. “Mine,” Louis said, and his eyes were dark and his voice was darker and Harry nodded because that was all he fucking wanted.

“God,” Louis breathed, and he took Harry by the hand and pulled him to the bedroom. In the bedroom the light was dim, the curtains drawn against the day, and Harry tumbled onto the massive bed and Louis tumbled down on top of him. Louis was graceful and Louis was fire, and his mouth was rough and his hands were soft. Louis fumbled with Harry’s belt and his chest heaved with every breath. 

“I love you,” Harry said, and Louis tugged at the hair on Harry’s stomach and told him,

“Stop talking.” Harry obeyed. He obeyed. Louis popped open the button of Harry’s jeans and Harry kicked off his shoes as Louis wrestled his own jeans to the floor. “You’re so fucking hot, Haz,” Louis whimpered, and Harry tried to speak but Louis shut him up with a kiss that made his head spin. He bit Harry’s lip and he made soft noises in the back of his throat and Harry was going to fall apart but that was all right. That was okay. 

“What do you want?” Louis asked even though he knew. 

“You,” Harry breathed. “Only you.” Louis groaned and he whimpered and he bucked his hips and Harry’s eyes closed against the heat rising in his guts. It was all he could do. Louis pinned Harry to the bed by his biceps and his hips and he nipped at his chest with his teeth. Harry was wrecked and he was gone for Louis and every touch brought him closer and closer to falling off the edge. He was so hard he ached and he wanted to beg Louis to take him and he wanted this to end and he wanted nothing but to stay here for the rest of his life. 

Louis’s tongue found the dip of Harry’s hip and he bucked, Louis chastising him with a soft bite and reminding him to be quiet. 

“Don’t say anything,” Louis told him, and Harry obeyed. “Don’t make a sound.” That was harder; that was impossible; Louis was gorgeous and his tongue was ecstasy on Harry’s skin. Harry couldn’t help it. He moaned. And then Louis sat up and he pressed his hands to Harry’s chest and he told him again, “Don’t make a sound.” Harry’s lip hurt and his bones hurt for missing Louis and he wanted to feel Louis in his fucking guts again. Louis straddled Harry’s knees and he pressed kiss after kiss into Harry’s stomach. Harry was going to lose it. He was going to explode. 

“Are you fucking crying?” Louis asked, and Harry realized the desperate choking noises coming from his lips were the beginnings of tired sobs. 

“No,” Harry said. “No, no. I love you.” 

“Shut up.” He did. He did. Louis slid his fingers into the waistband of Harry’s underwear and Harry wanted to scream, his hips bucking up out of his control. “Be calm.” That was easy for him to say; he had been anything but calm when it was Harry nipping kisses into Louis’s skin. Harry tried to get control; he tried to obey, but Louis’s hands were gentle and Harry’s underwear hit the floor. 

“I love you,” Harry said like a goddamn prayer.

“Shut up,” Louis ordered. His thumbs drew circles inside Harry’s thighs and his eyes were dark and hungry as he took Harry in. “God, you’re something else,” he said, and in the next moment his lips found Harry’s thigh and he moaned to the ceiling. This was good, this was too good, and his stomach hurt from keeping an orgasm at bay but that was fucking okay. His chest hurt and his mouth hurt and Louis’s hands kneaded at Harry’s thighs as he kissed his way back up towards Harry’s stomach.

“Please,” Harry whimpered because this was all too much. He needed Louis to finish this; he needed this to end. He was going to explode. 

“Please what?” Louis breathed, pressing his nose and a kiss into Harry’s pubic hair. 

“Touch me.”

“What do you call this?” Louis asked, and he was beautiful and he enjoyed teasing Harry mercilessly, his hands vanishing from Harry’s skin. “You want me to touch you? Beg.”

“Touch me,” Harry said. “Touch me, I fucking love you, touch me.” Louis smirked and Louis was wild and he said,

“No.” Harry moaned, hard and hot and sweaty, and he reached for Louis but Louis dodged away from his searching hands. “Don’t touch me,” he said, and Louis took Harry’s hands into his own and the way he sat on his thighs wasn’t fucking fair. “Don’t touch me,” Louis said again. He pressed Harry’s knuckles to his red lips and he kissed them one by one, ten slow, lingering kisses. Harry bucked his hips uselessly and Louis ignored his desperation.

“Louis, please.”

“Please what? Please make you moan? Please make you cum? Is that what you want?”

“Yes,” Harry cried. “Yes, please.” His chest was sticky with sweat and his hair matted to his forehead and Louis was sex personified with his hair all over the place and his chest flushed red. 

“Why should I?”

“I love you,” Harry whimpered. “I love you and you love me.”

“Do I?” Louis barked. “Are you sure of that?”

“I’m sure.” Louis leaned close to Harry’s stomach and he dropped his chin onto Harry’s thigh and stayed there, his eyes all over Harry’s face. “Don’t be so fucking sure.” But Louis was good and Louis sat up, his eyes hungry on Harry’s cock, and he took him into his mouth and it was all fucking over. Harry saw stars, the earth shattering around him like a hotel mirror, and he arched his back and Louis was good and he grinned around Harry and the smile he offered was filthy and greedy and warm. 

“Mine,” Louis grunted, and Harry nodded. He fucking nodded and Louis moaned and his tongue was hot and Harry bunched the sheets in his hands and Louis’s ring stabbed pain down his arm but it didn’t fucking matter.

“I love you, I love you, I love you.” 

“Like shit you do,” Louis said, and the burning in Harry’s guts reached a boiling point. He bucked in Louis’s mouth and Louis whimpered, desperate for every twitch of Harry’s body, and just when Harry saw white hot stars across his vision, Louis’s mouth was gone. 

“Hazza,” Louis said. “My baby Hazza…” His fingers danced down the hair on Harry’s stomach and tangled in the coarse hair farther down, and Harry was wrecked and he was gone and he couldn’t remember quite how to breathe. Each breath came as a sharp gasp, pain in his lungs, and Louis said, “My baby Haz, do you want to fuck me?”

“Yes.” Yes, he did, he did, he did. Louis was good and he grinned and his fingers tiptoed down each of Harry’s sore ribs. 

“Say you love me,” he said, and Harry nodded.

“I love you.” 

“Say it’s only me forever.”

“Yes.” (Anything, anything, anything you want from me is yours.) 

“Say you need me.”

“Yes, yes, Lou, I fucking need you.” He did, he did, and Louis was beautiful and his skin was hot and he dove from the bed to reach for the tiny bedside table. He came back with a condom in his hand and he ripped it open with his teeth.

“What,” he said when he caught Harry staring, “did you think it was my destiny to wait around for you?” The words he said were cruel but that was okay because Harry deserved each one. 

“No,” Harry agreed, and Louis unrolled the condom down the length of Harry’s cock and drew his hands away.

“Okay,” Louis said. “Okay. So you love me. I don’t have to love you back, do I?” 

“No,” Harry said. Whatever Louis wanted, whatever Louis wanted to be, Harry could give it to him. He had no choice; he couldn’t live without him. But Louis was good and Louis was sweet and he smiled and he said,

“Maybe I do.”

“Do you?”

“That’s for you to wait and see, my baby Hazza bee.” Louis spoke nonsense and Harry loved it, every word making him shiver, and finally Louis beckoned him forward and said, “Go on, then. Fucking take me. I’m yours.” 

He was Harry’s. He belonged to Harry and it was a miracle that Louis wanted him and it was glorious that Louis loved him. Louis struggled with his underwear and then they hit the floor, nothing more between them but air, and Harry couldn’t breathe and he didn’t even want to. And Louis rose up on his hands and knees and he looked so fucking good just like that, craning his neck to look at Harry with his eyebrows cocked up as he waited, restless. 

“Go on,” Louis said, and Harry did not mean to hesitate but he did and Louis saw, his sinfully pretty mouth quirking up into a smirk. “What,” he said with a roll of his crystal clear eyes, impatient, “are you going to sit there and tell me you’re scared because you’ve never fucked a boy before?”

“No,” Harry snapped. He was not scared, not at all. He did not want to tell Louis the truth, that was all; he was tasting this moment. Slowly, too slowly for Louis, Harry took hold of him by his hips, Harry’s hands huge on Louis’s tiny frame. He lined himself up, a strange buzzing in his ears, and he was awful at a lot of things and sex topped the list. But Louis wanted him and Harry couldn’t think for staring at his ass and all the sloping curves of him. 

“Go on,” Louis said, and Harry had never done this before. Not with anyone, not ever, and Harry was tentative as he pressed carefully against Louis’s waiting hole. And this was too much, Harry thought, and as Harry slipped inside Louis he released what sounded like a moan he’d been saving up just for Harry’s ears. 

“Hazza, Hazza, Haz,” he sang, and it was the same prayer he had recited as Harry lay dying and maybe that was okay because he sure as hell felt like he was dying now. Maybe that was how this was meant to be. “Mine,” he said again.

“Yours,” Harry agreed. Louis felt good, he felt so fucking good, and he was hot and tight and hungry and Harry had no fucking idea what to do. He had one hand splayed over Louis’s spine and the other released his hip to surge forward and tangle in his hair. He pulled Louis’s neck back and he saw the whites of Louis’s eyes as he rolled his hips and their bodies melded together over and over and over. Louis was so fucking hot all around Harry, the dimples in his back rolling with every move. Harry had never felt anything so fucking good, so fucking warm, and with every motion of his rolling hips he wondered how he could possibly keep going without erupting. Louis pressed against Harry as he bucked his hips, white hot pleasure rolling down his spine. This was too good, Louis knew exactly what he was doing as he swayed with the motion of Harry’s hips, and Harry closed his eyes and let the world narrow to the heat of where their bodies connected. 

“So good,” Louis whined, and he was perfect and he was right and nothing had ever been so good. “So good.” Louis closed his eyes and the noises he made were the sexiest thing Harry had ever fucking heard and everything was Louis, Louis, Louis. He was hot, so fucking hot, and Harry tried his best to touch every goddamn inch of him. He was glorious, his hips hot in Harry’s hands. He was perfect, moaning blissfully into his pillow.

“Lou,” Harry breathed, shocked he could make words come. He was choking on the beauty of the boy he moved inside, everything hot and warm and perfect. “Lou, my Lou.” His hands tightened on Louis’s hips with every move Louis made, rolling his hips just enough to change the way they fit together and make Harry’s head explode with something static and fuzzy.

And all at once Louis made a noise like a fucking animal, the muscles in his back twitching as he cried out, and he shouted Harry’s name to the sheets beneath him. “Fuck, Haz,” he whimpered. “Fuck, Hazza, right fucking there.” His breathing quickened and Harry could hardly breathe himself for the way Louis impossibly tightened around him. This was not possible, Louis was too good to be true, but his hips were slick with sweat and he whimpered Harry’s name over and over.

“Fucking hell, Haz,” Louis breathed. “Fuck.” His voice sent a shiver down Harry’s spine and he was going to fucking cum, falling apart from the inside out. Harry did not want to close his eyes, missing the sight of Louis quivering in his hands. He did not want to close his eyes and lose Louis for a goddamn second. And Harry did not want to cum; he kept himself painfully at the edge, gnawing the skin from his lip, because this was the first time and this was special and he wanted to keep this moment close to his chest for as long as he possibly could. But Louis was impatient, insatiable and wild, and he spoke three words that made Harry’s stomach clench.

“Cum for me,” he breathed, and every attempt Harry made to keep from doing so was lost. Harry dropped his forehead to Louis’s back, Louis’s skin hot, and there was nothing more he could do. The heat in his stomach built and built and built and finally, blessedly, the white hot heat inside of him erupted. 

“Fuck,” he cried, and the lump in his throat was going to strangle him but that was okay. His orgasm shook him and he lost all the strength in his arms as he finished deep inside Louis. He slowed and he stopped and his heart had never beat so fucking fast as he collapsed into Louis’s back and sent them crashing together to the bed. 

“Umf,” Louis grunted beneath Harry, all heat and warmth and sweat. “Baby, baby, you’re so fucking good.” Louis squirmed away and he was lucky he was strong because Harry did not want to ever move again. Harry did not want to pull away but he had to, he had to, and he pulled out and he panted, breathless, as he rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling. 

“I love you,” Harry said, and Louis nodded. 

“I know.” Harry peeled the condom from his spent cock and he tossed it to the floor and Louis said, “You animal,” and then Harry was all over him. Louis laughed and he squirmed and no one else had ever made Harry feel so spent and so alive and so fucking blissfully, painfully hot. 

“Get off me,” Louis said, but Harry was not good at following orders and Louis made no move to push him away as Harry’s mouth found his. He was sweet and he was good and all that mattered was the heat of him and the laughter he brayed to the ceiling as Harry kissed his stomach and his trembling thighs again and again and again.

 

Dying was hard but waking up was easy. Harry was exhausted from the late night drive into the city and he hadn’t meant to but he fell asleep before the sun set and woke up bright in the middle of the night. Louis was still awake, propped up against the wall by three fluffy pillows. 

“Hey, gorgeous,” Louis said, and he dropped a hand to Harry’s bare chest and he splayed his fingers. Harry was so blissful he could hardly move and watching Louis breathe didn’t make it any easier. “Did I tire you out?”

“Always,” Harry replied. Louis chuckled and he danced his fingers along Harry’s ribs. 

“Harry, you’re so damn hot.”

“You said I looked like shit,” Harry said, and Louis smiled. 

“You do. You did, I mean. You look a lot better now that you have love bites here…” He tapped his finger on each side of Harry’s hips. “And here…” His fingers tickled Harry’s chest as he walked them up his ribs. “And here.” He brushed his hand along the hollow of Harry’s throat and without thinking Harry took hold of his hand and kissed the pad of each finger.

“Stop looking at me like that,” Louis said when Harry looked up at him and smiled.

“Like what?”

“Like you think I’m the love of your life.”

“You are.” (How had he ever let him get away?)

“Oh, my baby Hazza bee.” Louis traced the dips of Harry’s collarbones with the back of his hand and carefully he danced his fingers up and ran them through Harry’s curls. They got tangled in the wild mess that was his hair and Louis laughed as he fought to get his hand back.

“You need a haircut, baby,” Louis said, and Harry reached up to tug at the hair curling up at the base of Louis’s neck.

“So do you.” Dying was hard but pillow talk was easy, and Harry rolled over on his side to curl up with his head on Louis’s chest. 

“What are you doing?” Louis asked, dropping his hand back into Harry’s hair. 

“I have no idea.” It was the truth. He had nothing to offer Louis and he had no excuse for pushing him away. He had no excuse for being how he was and somehow, miraculously, here he was and here Louis was and they lay together like they had never been apart. It was easy. It was good. And Louis kissed his forehead and his lips lingered there, Louis pressing his nose into Harry’s hair, and maybe Harry broke his damn heart and maybe it wasn’t fixable, but it could be salvaged and maybe it could be saved. Harry had lost his own heart, after all, and here he was and he was all right. He was okay. 

He was okay.

 

A week flew by like it was nothing and Louis was good and he held Harry’s hand on East 42nd street as they paced Times Square day after day. New York City changed every day, after all, and Louis told him to watch for the changes and seek them out. And once Harry saw them it painted the city in a whole new light. Sure. Something changed every damn day. One morning a billboard would be advertising a new TV show and the next the very same billboard would be for a new goddamn candy bar. One night there would be a man with a guitar in the subway station and the next day he would have a dog at his side. One afternoon they would have lemon cupcakes in the display case at the coffee shop down the street from Grand Central and the next day they would only have chocolate. 

In a world of changes and running and anonymity, Harry thrived. He could hardly believe it at first but there it was; he fucking thrived. Louis was his tether to the earth and Louis held him down and they ate shitty fast food and saw movies on the seventh floor of a movie theater and Harry even bought them tickets to see the goddamn Lion King on Broadway. Harry couldn’t offer Louis anything but he could offer him the money Sophia had been tucking into his bank account for years. He could spoil Louis if giving him nothing else. He left the hotel room when Louis was asleep over a bowl of cereal at the table and came back with a brand new pair of Chuck Taylors to replace the battered pair Louis wore every day. He hid sticky notes everywhere Louis might find them, love notes that made Louis grin and throw himself into Harry’s arms.

Living was hard but being alive was easy. 

And then there was one week, seven short days before the Head Space tour was set to begin again. Harry was not afraid of anything but he was afraid of facing the family he had run away from. (The fans and their hands and Zayn and his guitar waiting to play Of the Color of the Sky.) Louis sensed the change in him and he brought home tubs of ice cream, tumbling peanut butter cup and dulce de leche and honey into his lap and sitting beside him on the couch in their hotel room. 

“I was at the store, Hazza, and I realized I have no idea what your favorite flavor of ice cream is.” Louis lolled back on the couch, his head thrown back over one of the arms and his feet propped on Harry’s thigh. “And I thought, how sad is that? So, what is it, Haz? What’s your favorite ice cream flavor?” 

Harry cracked a smile and he held up the tiny cup of honey swirled vanilla, wiggling the carton. “You got it.” 

“Ah!” Louis crowed, digging his toes into Harry’s ribs and making him squirm. “I knew it. I don’t know how but I knew it. Can you get us some spoons?” Harry pushed Louis’s feet off him and headed to the counter by the door of their room where there was a mess of plastic utensils and empty bags of candy and a hastily opened box of condoms. He returned to Louis’s side, leaning in for a kiss that tasted like Sour Patch Kids, and Louis turned on the TV and lay with his head on Harry’s lap, making soft noises of pleasure as he spooned ice cream into his mouth. Harry flipped through the channels and settled on some reality court case drama bullshit just to put some distracting noise into the room. 

Harry was wired and he had to stay calm. He popped open his ice cream and it had already gotten mushy in his hands and it dripped from his spoon but that was all right. Louis laughed at the people on TV, waving his spoon in the air and saying, “They could have at least made this realistic if they wanted us to believe it’s real!” Harry laughed and looked down at Louis in his lap and wondered how the hell he got lucky enough to go to hell and back and still end up here. 

“I can see up your nose,” Louis laughed, and he pressed a finger to the tip of Harry’s nose and laughed when he swatted him away. “Can I try some of yours?” Louis asked. He opened his mouth and Harry scooped a spoonful of honey ice cream onto his waiting tongue. “Mmm,” Louis said. “You had no idea how much I love ice cream, did you?”

“None,” Harry agreed.

“It’s a shame,” Louis said. “We really should get to know each other a little better.”

“We will,” Harry said. (They had all the time in the world, didn’t they? Harry was alive and he had Louis back and he had no intention of ever letting him go again. Not for as long as he lived.)

“What’s your favorite color, my baby Hazza bee?” 

“The nicknames are getting a little ridiculous,” Harry told him in reply. 

“It only gets worse with me,” Louis said, a lazy smile on his lips. “You didn’t know that but now you do. And my favorite color is green. So tell me. What’s yours?”

Harry didn’t have to think twice to answer, “Blue. Like the sky.” He only hesitated for a moment before telling the truth. “Like your eyes.”

“Aww,” Louis smiled. “See, I didn’t know you were going to be so goddamn sweet when I met you. And now I do. It only gets better from here, Harry. Do you believe that?”

“I do.” And he did. He did. 

 

With four days to go before the trip to Las Vegas, Sophia finally got through to Harry. He had let his phone die again and he had forty-seven missed calls from Sophia alone by the time he finally plugged it in. He chewed at his fingernails as he called her back and waited for her to pick up. When she did, she was on fire.

“Harry Styles, don’t you ever scare me like this again!” she cried. “I’m not letting you out of my sight for the rest of this fucking tour! Where have you been? I called your hotel and they told me you checked out and we couldn’t find you and we’ve been worried sick…” 

“I’m okay,” Harry assured her. “I’m in New York City.”

“What the hell are you doing in the city? Are you serious? Have you been out there having the time of your life at fucking Ripley’s Believe it or Not while I’ve been here getting an ulcer?”

“No,” Harry said, and the door of their hotel room clicked open as Louis returned from a trip downstairs to the vending machine for candy and Coke. “I’m with Louis.”

Sophia was quiet. “You went looking for him, didn’t you?”

“I had to.”

Sophia sighed loud enough to send a harsh wave of static noise into Harry’s ear. “And you’re all right, then. With him? You’re okay?”

“Better than okay.” Sophia clicked her tongue but Sophia was good and she didn’t need an explanation. 

“I’m just so relieved you’re alive I could cry,” she said, and it took a lot of small talk to get her to finally tell him what she had left thirteen voicemails for. Louis dropped the candy and soda on the counter by the door and he kicked off his Chucks, kicking them across the room, and when he caught Harry staring at him he bit at his lip and cocked his hip to the side. Harry watched him and he half listened to Sophia as she spoke. 

“The tour, Haz,” she finally said. “You need to be here, with me and the band, in four days. We have one day of rehearsals and that’s me being too generous towards you. Are you going to be here, Haz? Can you do it?”

“I can do it.” Louis was not made for this life and he hadn’t asked Louis just yet if he wanted to come along but Louis had dropped to his knees before Harry and begun to unzip Harry’s jeans. Harry tried halfheartedly to shake him off but Louis grinned devilishly up at him and tugged his underwear down to his knees. 

“How have you been?” Sophia was asking him from far away. “You’re taking good care of yourself? Are you healthy?” Harry had put on weight for the first time in years, the result of nearly two lazy weeks filling up on ice cream and fast food. It wasn’t much, just enough to fill out the hollows of his cheeks and make his hipbones not quite as sharp, but he knew Sophia would be happy when she saw him, just this once. 

“I’m great,” Harry struggled to reply. Louis kissed at Harry’s stomach and he held his hips tight in both hands and Harry had to bite down hard on his tongue to keep from groaning in pleasure as Sophia lectured him on the flight information she was sending to his phone. And Louis brushed his lips along the tip of Harry’s cock and he had to ask Sophia to repeat herself as she spoke and he saw stars. 

“Haz,” Sophia said tiredly. “Is Lou coming with you?”

“Uh,” Harry said. “Lou,” he said, like the decision to tear Louis once again from his life was an easy choice to make. “Are you coming with me?” 

“Mmm,” Louis moaned filthily around Harry’s cock. “Yes, I’m coming with you.” 

Sophia was quiet and Harry thought she might have heard the lust in Louis’s voice from the other line, but then she said, “Sorry, Nick was talking to me. Was that one plane ticket or two?”

“Two,” Harry said, catching a handful of Louis’s hair in his fist. “Two.”

“Okay, Haz. I’ll see you in a couple days.”

“Right.”

“Tell Louis I said hello.” 

“I will.”

“Rest up, Harry. Please. You have a long couple of months ahead of you.”

“I will.”

“Have a good night, then.”

“I will.” Harry hung up the phone and he dropped it to the carpet just in time to take hold of Louis by the hair with both hands and cum spectacularly on the tip of his tongue. Louis sat back on his haunches and wiped at his mouth with one hand and looked up at Harry and said,

“I’ve always wanted to go to Vegas.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hit me up @ ourl0veisgod on tumblr, blah blah the usual. finally, something good and sweet for the boys i love to write.


	10. Chapter 10

October slipped into November and the blissful, lazy weeks of Harry’s recovery were over long before he was ready. The bruises on his chest faded and vanished and the angry red scar in the center of his lip healed to a faint white line. Harry was not a planner and as the last few days ticked by Louis began to pack away their things. He did a load of laundry for a palm full of quarters and carried it all in his arms back to the room, leaving Harry to follow the trail of dropped socks all the way back to the hotel laundry room. 

On the very last night they had alone together, Louis packed up the last of their things into their bags, humming with a lollipop between his teeth. Harry watched him move and tried to pretend he had no intention of thinking second thoughts. (Louis was good, Louis wasn’t meant to be part of Harry’s world; who did he think he was, doing this all over again?) But Harry was selfish and he didn’t think the world ending could make him let Louis go again. 

Louis rolled the lollipop that stained his tongue red to the corner of his mouth to say, “You’re scared, aren’t you?”

So maybe Louis still had him all figured out. Harry dropped his head onto the stack of pillows where he lolled on the bed and he closed his eyes. That was all the answer Louis needed. 

“Are you scared of me still?”

“Not of you.”

“You’re scared of yourself, then.”

“I don’t know.” Harry threw one arm over his eyes so he wouldn’t have to look at Louis when he sat beside him. 

“What can I do to make you better? To make all of this go away?”

“Right now?” Harry asked as if right this very minute was all that would ever matter.

“Sure, right now.”

“Kiss me.” Louis smiled, wan but warm, and when he leaned in and kissed Harry he tasted like candy. 

“I love you,” Harry said because maybe that was the answer this time, and Louis smiled. 

“That’s okay,” he said. Because maybe now he understood that love was what scared Harry more than anything.

 

Sophia had booked them a flight for six in the morning and Harry was startled out of sleep by the alarm Louis set on his phone for four AM. 

“Fuck,” Harry moaned, dropping his head back onto his pillow and pulling the comforter tighter around his body.

“Rise and shine, tiger,” Louis said in reply. He didn’t look much better off than Harry, yawning and bleary eyed. But he rolled out of bed and stretched out his limbs and he pressed a hot cup of coffee into Harry’s hand before Harry had even gotten out of bed. 

“If we miss our flight Sophia is going to slit your throat,” Louis warned, but Harry was far too warm to get up just yet. Harry put his coffee on the nightstand and he took hold of Louis by both wrists and pulled him in close.

“I love you,” Harry said, and Louis grinned.

“Yeah, babe, but you really have to get up.” Louis gave in and he gave Harry one long, lingering kiss before rising again and padding to the bathroom to brush his teeth. Every part of Harry ached, his body completely unwilling to let him get up and climb out of the blessedly warm bed. Louis poked his head out of the bathroom, his toothbrush hanging from his lips, and he tapped at the imaginary watch on his bare wrist and Harry rolled his eyes.

“It’s still dark out,” Harry complained.

“Well, it should be easy, then,” Louis said as he spat in the sink. “You’re a night owl, aren’t you?”

“Ugh.” Harry threw the covers over his head and closed his eyes and he heard Louis walking towards the bed and he didn’t have time protect himself before Louis ripped the covers off and mercilessly dug his fingers into Harry’s ribs. “Fuck!” Harry cried as Louis landed on his hips and tickled him, making it hard to breathe (but God, in the best way). Harry laughed and so did Louis and he was laughing too hard to shake him off. “Stop!” Harry cried between painful bursts of laughter.

“Get up!” Louis said. 

“Fine! Fine!” Harry surrendered and the tickling stopped, Louis leaning back with a smirk on his face as Harry gasped for air. 

“I learned something about you today,” Louis said.

“What’s that?” Harry panted.

“You’re ticklish.”

“I could have told you that.” Harry sat up and he wrapped his arms around Louis and cradled him in his lap.

“Yeah,” Louis said, “and I could have asked.” Louis kissed him, careful and quick, and he leapt off the bed and threw Harry his clothes. “Get dressed, you love struck idiot. We have a new city to burn.”

 

Louis fell asleep on the plane, curled up against the window Harry let him have once again, and he looked so goddamn good Harry didn’t know what to do. He was restless, terrified of landing and facing the real world for the first time in nearly a month. Louis was beautiful but maybe he wasn’t meant to be real. Reality meant Sophia and Zayn and the band and the tour and the fans writing him letters he couldn’t bear to read. 

Louis didn’t stir when Harry had to rise out of his seat and wrestle the jostling of the plane to throw up his coffee in the tiny airplane toilet. He didn’t stir when Harry came back, either, jabbing at the button for a stewardess to order a ginger ale for the burning in his throat. Harry’s stomach clenched painfully as he sipped at the lukewarm soda and willed himself to not be sick again. His body betrayed him again and again but this time he managed to defeat it for a while. 

At the airport Harry and Louis stumbled over one another, tired and achy and (in Harry’s case) scared to death of what was coming. 

(How could he be so selfish? Louis didn’t belong here and maybe Harry didn’t belong here, either, but it was too late to say it now because Harry was mean and he was a heartbreaker and once again he took Louis along for the ride.)

It was a relief when Sophia met them, her long dark hair flowing loosely down her back for the first time Harry could remember, and she threw her arms around Harry and nearly sent him sprawling. She smelled like vanilla and something flowery and Harry wondered if she had always smelled like that and he never noticed it before. Harry couldn’t resist; he spun her around, and she laughed and demanded he put her down and when he did she looked up at him with tears in her eyes. 

“Harry, you look so good,” she said. “I can’t believe it.” She stood on her tiptoes to press her hands to his cheeks and when she blinked fat tears rolled down her own. 

“Thanks a lot,” Harry said, pretending he believed she insulted him, and she pinched his cheek and drew back. “You finally put on weight, that’s all!” she crowed. “You have color in your face! You look so good you don’t even look like the same person!” 

“Thanks!” Harry teased, and Sophia wailed and threw her arms around his neck again. He picked her up off the floor and she said,

“Oh, Haz, I’m so happy you’re here.” She smacked a kiss on his face and he put her down and pretended to wipe off his cheek. “Oh, stop.” She turned to Louis, who had been watching their reunion with a bemused smile on his face, and Sophia drew him into a bone crushing hug. “You look good, too, Lou,” she said. “So good.”

“Doesn’t he?” Harry said, and again Sophia said,

“Oh, stop.” She released Louis and she looked between them, wiping at her cheeks with the backs of her hands. “Anyway,” she said, “let’s get out of here. The Troves and Vegas are waiting.” She returned to her usual self, all business and a sharp tongue, and she led them out of the airport and out into the sunny morning. 

“Ah,” Louis said, and he tilted his head up and soaked in the early morning sunshine. It was warm here, blissful after the frigid weather of New York City, and Sophia clicked her tongue impatiently when Harry paused at Louis’s side to mimic him. 

“Boys,” Sophia said, but Harry reached out blindly and found her with one arm. He drew her to his side and she stumbled in her high heels but she stayed on her feet. 

“Shh, Soph,” Harry said when she tried to pull away. “Enjoy it.” 

(Lying on the carpet in his hotel room in London, Harry had thought he would never see the sun again. As a ghost, as a junkie, as a man who had been to hell and back, the sun was the single most glorious thing Harry had ever felt on his skin.)

Sophia conceded and Harry peeked at her to see her eyes close as she tilted her face to the sky. On Harry’s other side Louis glowed, soaking up the sun that danced lightly on his skin. And Harry thought he was so happy he could burst and instead he bit it back and bit back the lump in his throat and he used the sky as a substitute for God or whoever the hell it was who had decided Harry fucking Styles deserved a second chance. 

Eventually somebody bumped into Louis and the spell was broken. Louis stumbled and Harry steadied him because it was the least that he could do.

“All right, you idiots,” Sophia said, but she had tears in her eyes again and she wiped them away when she thought Harry couldn’t see. “Can we move on, please?” 

“Sure,” Harry grinned. “Anything for you.” The cities changed and changed but within them each one was exactly the same. Sophia hailed a cab and she gabbed about the hotel they would be staying in as they rode. Once again this city was the same as the last and The Troves were to play three shows in Las Vegas before moving on. 

“The shows sold out, Haz,” Sophia said once she was done telling them all about the grandeur of their hotel. 

“Yeah?” Harry asked. “When did that happen?” Last time he had checked there were empty seats and he knew exactly the reason they were filled even as Sophia replied.

“Two weeks ago.”

“After they saw me on TV.” 

“Yes,” Sophia admitted, and finally she fell silent. He shouldn’t have asked her that and he felt guilty for making her frown after the joy she had shown at having him back. But Harry was mean and he was a heartbreaker and he said nothing to ease the frown from her face. The seats would be full of people coming to see the great big enigma that was Harry fucking Styles, waiting with bated breath to see if he broke down all over again right before their eyes. Maybe they hoped to see him die on stage, choking inches from their reaching hands, and he shook the gruesome image from his head but it didn’t go away. 

“Don’t panic,” Sophia said because she could read Harry better than he could read her. She was quick and she was smart and she could see that he was beginning to feel twinges of fear deep in his twisted stomach. 

“I’m not.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t do more to cover up what happened to you,” she said, quick and low. Sophia sounded so forlorn Harry dropped a hand to her thigh and squeezed.

“It’s okay,” he tried to say, but she shook her head as they pulled up before a massive hotel in white stone. 

“It’s not. Haz, it’s my job to protect you. And I didn’t. And now everyone knows what happened to you and it was so hard to see it all on the goddamn six o’clock news. Everyone is going to think they know you, Haz, now more than ever before. And I should have been there to stop it before it got out of control.” Sophia handed the cab driver money and told him to keep the change and she helped Louis and Harry drag their bags from the trunk. She blinked fast and wouldn’t meet Harry’s searching eyes and just like always, there was someone else blaming themselves for everything Harry put himself through.

(He should run; he should fucking run before he broke Sophia, too, beyond repair.)

“Soph…” he tried, but she shook him off and she said,

“The boys are waiting for you. They’re itching to sound check with you.”

“Soph…” She shushed him. Harry tried to speak again but Louis slipped his hand into the small of his back and the fight left him all at once. 

(Was he crazy? He needed Lou; he needed him to be his tether to the earth.)

Sophia pulled her cell phone from the pocket of her blazer and she dialed with one finger. “You might want to drop your bag,” she said. “I think you’re about to be tackled.” She grinned and Harry’s head spun trying to keep up with her but he supposed he understood. He was a lot to handle and a lot to take in, a hot fucking mess with his hair way too long, and Sophia said into her phone two words. “He’s here.” 

Thirty seconds later the front door of the hotel burst open and three boys dashed together down the driveway. Harry did as he was told and he dropped his bag and Louis laughed as he stepped back and Niall reached him first and lifted him off his feet. “Haz!” he cried. His arms were too tight and it hurt but he put him down and Liam wrapped his strong arms around the both of them and squeezed tight enough to make Harry see stars. 

“Don’t kill him!” Sophia warned from far away, but then Zayn was on them and the last time he had lunged at Harry it was to land a punch but this time his arms wrapped tight around Harry’s middle and he hugged him until he started gasping for air. The Troves pulled back, grinning like madmen, and Harry had no idea what to do. That they still were here and they still wanted him and maybe they still loved him was enough to bring the lump back to Harry’s throat and with it the urge to throw up until he couldn’t feel the guilt in every bone. 

(One by one he had broken these people and one by one they had slapped bandages over their hearts and let him back in and how in the hell did he deserve that?)

“You look fucking good, Haz,” Liam said, bringing Harry back out of the darkness in his stupid fucking head. “You put on some weight!”

“Yeah,” Niall said. “You look human again.” He, like Zayn had gotten a haircut in the three week hiatus, and his long blond hair was now not even long enough to shag in his eyes. 

“It’s good to have you back, Haz,” Zayn said, and it didn’t matter that there was a scar on Harry’s face from Zayn’s hands and it didn’t matter that he had broken Zayn’s heart. It was okay and it was fine because maybe this time they could learn to be a team again. It was all right. It was okay. Harry felt the heat of the sun on his skin and he felt Louis’s hand slip into the back pocket of his jeans and nothing else mattered. His band looked at him and he looked at them and how could they still be smiling so wide after everything he had put them through? (Guilt was going to eat Harry alive if he wasn’t careful; he could feel it gnawing painfully at his stomach every time he met a pair of smiling eyes. Guilt was going to be the death of him.)

It was easy to smile as his band led him into the biggest hotel Harry had ever seen. It grew hard once Harry was inside. He felt so small, so insignificant and broken, the moment he stepped through the door. What was he doing here? Who was he kidding? Was there really a part of him that wanted this to be okay, that wanted to stay here and play tomorrow’s show and the one after that and the one after that? 

(He wasn’t ready for the endless cycle of cities and cabs and planes.)

He yearned for the quiet hotel room in Manhattan where he could lounge on the couch with Louis and stuff sour candy into each other’s mouths and then fall into bed tasting like sugar and sweat. Louis was good and Louis kept a steadying hand at the small of Harry’s back. He knew Harry needed it and Harry was grateful but now that he was getting the grand tour of the all too grand hotel the lump in his throat wouldn’t go down and Harry tried his best to keep his head from spinning. 

“Our rooms are right next to each other,” Niall said on the fourth floor. 

“So keep it down,” Liam added, sneaking up behind Louis and tickling at the fresh bruises on his throat. Louis laughed and he said,

“No promises,” and the blush on his cheeks made Liam and Niall fall over each other with laughter. It was good and it felt good to see them happy and alive but Harry was a storm cloud and he had the dragging feeling that there was nothing he could do to make this last. 

“We’re going to practice at the venue tonight,” Zayn said as he stuck his plastic room key into the lock of the room he and Niall and Liam were sharing. “Are you in?”

“I’m in,” Harry said because he didn’t have a choice. Louis let them into the room Sophia had handed them the key for, and Harry dropped his bag without even looking at the room (the feeling of a new hotel room had lost its luster and Harry didn’t give a fuck what made this room any different than all the rooms before) and he found the king sized bed with a gaudy purple and gold bedspread and he collapsed on his face on top of the covers. Louis opened up the empty closet by the bed and stuck their bags inside before sitting on the bed by Harry’s head. 

“Taking a nap before practice, Sleeping Beauty?” Louis asked, tiptoeing his fingers down Harry’s spine. He loved the feeling, Louis always knowing exactly what he needed, but he didn’t tell Louis that.

“Says the one who fell asleep on the plane,” he grumbled in reply. He ached and he was sweaty and he thought he might have a fever but he had a job and he had a duty and tonight he had to make the three block walk to the venue and perform for the first time since he came back from the dead. Would he be able to sing as a fucking zombie? He had no idea. Maybe it was over and maybe he was fooling himself but he had a new song and he knew he looked good and he thought maybe this was how it was all supposed to go. 

“Harry, you’re so goddamn hard on yourself,” Louis said because somehow he knew. “You have no idea how incredible you are.” 

(And there it was, the same words Louis had said to him the night Harry began crafting Louis’s song, the night he realized he might be falling in love.)

“I could say the same to you.” Harry’s voice sounded wrecked coming out of him, labored and husky and slow, and Louis slipped his fingers under Harry’s shirt and pressed his warm hands to Harry’s skin. 

“I’m nothing special.”

“Fuck off,” Harry said. (It killed him, it killed him that Louis thought nothing of himself but there was nothing he could do.)

“Make me.” And those were the magic fucking words. Harry rolled over on top of the covers and Louis was heat and sugar and soft hands and one by one every weight holding Harry down hit the floor with his clothes, the world narrowing to Louis’s sweet lips and maybe this was how it was all supposed to go.

 

Louis and Harry walked arm in arm to the venue Harry had never played before. On the outside it was smaller than Harry expected and he began to relax. But then he saw the sign advertising three sold out shows by The Troves and his heart painfully skipped a beat. The sign blinked in true Vegas style in neon shades of pink and blue. There were people everywhere and the noise hurt his head because this was nothing like the organized, beautiful chaos of Manhattan. This was messy and loud and broken doorbells and flashing headlights and spotlights and Harry’s head pounded enough to turn his stomach as he reached for the door handle of the venue with Louis at his side. 

“You can do this,” Louis said just because he was good and he knew exactly what Harry needed. 

“I know.” Sure. He was Harry fucking Styles and he was born to be onstage and he could face his band and play his music and flex his voice for the first time in weeks. He was Harry fucking Styles and he had not come back from the dead for nothing. Inside the venue was spectacular and Harry looked up at the gold ceiling and at the mirrored walls reflecting dozens of echoes of him and Louis all around the entrance hall. Beyond the mirrors and beyond the box office there was a set of stairs leading up and a set of stairs leading down, one to the floor where the fans would stand this time tomorrow in wait of Harry. The other led to the stage. Together Harry and Louis climbed the golden set of stairs (New York and London and Las Vegas were cities obsessed with gold; what did gold give to the world that shades of black and white couldn’t?) and Harry pressed at his temple with two fingers were his headache began to pound. 

He chased Louis up the stairs and when did it get so hard for him to catch his breath?

And suddenly they found themselves onstage. Harry froze and it took him a long moment to take it all in. He had played to huge crowds before. He had played to thousands of screaming fans. But somehow this room felt like the biggest Harry had ever seen. Rows and rows of seats rose up and up and up beyond what little light the stage lights cast on the tiers stacked to dizzying heights. Harry exhaled, his chest aching, and Zayn met him in the center of the stage and clapped a hand on his back. 

“It’s damn big, isn’t it?”

“It is,” Harry gulped because it was all that he could say. 

“Haz, you can dominate this place. Don’t let the size intimidate you.”

“Thanks,” Harry said because it was all that he could say. 

“You were the best front man I had ever seen once. Can you be that again?”

“Yeah,” Harry said. “I’ll give it a shot.”

“That’s my boy!” Zayn crowed, and it was as if a bad word had never passed between them. They could have been seventeen again, huddled together in the garage over a shitty pop punk song with Zayn’s shitty old guitar between them on the floor. 

In the end, nothing had changed but the goddamn year. 

Jeff and Nick and Eleanor, fresh off their own three weeks of vacation, set up the stage and talked amongst themselves. It was good to see them; just like everyone else it looked like the break did them a world of good. 

“Get the fuck out of the way, Haz,” Jeff barked, but when he caught Harry’s eye he laughed. “You’re standing right where I gotta put the mic. It’s fucking good to see you, man.” Harry had no idea what to say but he told Jeff it was good to see him, too. It was. It was. Eleanor and Nick taped cords and wires to the stage and slid amps across the floor and helped Liam set up his drums in the very back of the stage. It was chaos but it was the kind of chaos that made Harry’s body thrum with excitement rather than fear. He could do this. He could do this!

It was okay because maybe he could choose to be okay. 

He stood in the center of the stage and he stared out into the empty crowd and he would never, ever admit it but maybe he was (losing it) just a little scared. 

“Earth to Harry,” Zayn said, and he tilted Harry’s mic to get it closer to his mouth and he stepped back. “You look like a deer in headlights, Haz,” he said. 

“I feel like one.” Zayn clapped him on the back again and Harry closed his eyes and he took the microphone stand in both hands and all at once he was in Denver again. He was on the verge of collapsing and he was on the verge of breaking down. He was the same fucking man who couldn’t go one night without snorting shitty coke or shooting up poison into his veins or guzzling a bottle of whiskey hidden under his bed. 

After the three shows in Vegas, Harry knew the plan. They were to get back on their tour bus and travel the whole goddamn country and end up right back in New York City to end the tour at the end of winter. Sophia was hunting for an opening band to warm the crowd and Harry had never been so (shaken) scared in his entire life. How was Harry going to fake (sanity) normality every night, not just before an audience but before a fresh faced young band with no idea what this life could turn a person into?

(God, he was going to break.)

“I’m sorry,” he said as from behind him Zayn began to strum at his guitar. “Give me a minute.” He hopped off the stage and took the stairs at a run and then there he was again in a cruddy bathroom on his fucking knees. 

(He couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t breathe.)

There was a knock on the door because there always was a knock at the damn door, and then Louis was right there and he wasn’t going anywhere and he said,

“You have to stop making yourself sick, babe. You won’t be able to sing anymore with your throat all raw.” 

“I know,” Harry spat as he heaved again. He had nothing in him and his stomach clenched, empty and aching. Louis dropped to his knees at Harry’s side and he buried one hand in Harry’s hair. 

“You’re all right,” Louis said. He pulled Harry’s hair and it fucking hurt but Louis knew what he was doing and the pain distracted Harry as he heaved again. There was nothing in him but stomach acid and it burned when it came up and there was nothing Harry could do. “You’re all right, baby.” Louis was good and Louis stayed by his side as Harry clutched the toilet and held on for dear life. He felt feverish and he couldn’t fucking stop shaking for long enough to flush the damn toilet. 

“Why am I like this?” Harry asked, fully aware that he sounded like a goddamn teenager as he whined. 

“You’re scared.”

“I’m not.”

“Oh, baby…”

“Don’t call me that.” 

And there it was. He was mean and he was nasty and he could be fucking cruel if he wanted to. And Louis tangled his hand deeper into Harry’s hair that he had let grow far too long and Harry cried out in pain. 

“Don’t you dare,” Louis said, his voice low in Harry’s ear. “Don’t panic and don’t try and push me away because it’s not going to work.” 

“Lou…” He wanted to beg Louis to leave him alone and he wanted to apologize and beg for forgiveness for nearly leaving Louis all alone. But he was a goddamn filthy coward and he didn’t do anything at all. In reply, Louis pulled his hair to tilt his chin back and it hurt, it fucking hurt, but that was all right. That was okay. 

“You can go out there and you can sing and you can be okay. Do you hear me?”

Harry nodded. Louis knotted his fingers tighter in Harry’s hair and he pulled and Harry heaved again and Louis released. 

“Harry, have you always done this to yourself?”

“Yes.” Not always, maybe not forever, but for years he had been sick more days than he hadn’t. 

“I don’t want you to do it anymore.”

“Right.” It was easy for him to sit there and order Harry to be well. He had no idea how painfully his stomach clenched or his head pounded. He had no idea how it felt to be lost in the spotlight with ten thousand pairs of eyes on him.

(Self-pity was a well- kept secret that wasn’t so well kept anymore.)

“Don’t sit here feeling sorry for yourself, Haz,” Louis said. He pulled Harry’s hair again and it hurt and what the hell did he want from him? Harry didn’t look at him. He couldn’t. “You’re going to be a fucking legend whether you like it or not, babe, and it can be for living or it can be for dying.”

(Where was all the fucking wisdom coming from? When did Louis grow accustomed to the tragedies and pitfalls of life onstage?)

Harry looked up and he wiped sweat off his lip with the back of his hand and Louis looked back at him and said, “That’s what I thought.” He was soft in all the right places but he was fucking good and he knew what Harry needed. He stood and he offered Harry one slim hand.

“I love you,” Harry said.

“You love rock and roll, babe, and I think it’s about time you remembered.”

 

The Troves were back and they sounded damn good. Harry’s throat ached, tight and painfully raw, and Louis was right. He couldn’t sing if he couldn’t stop making himself sick. He had to be okay. He had no other choice. He sang and it hurt and he had to pause, coughing and trying to hide the blood he spat into his hand over and over. But the boys were good and the boys understood and Jeff made a trip to the convenience store down the street and came back with cough drops and icy bottled water. 

(Harry didn’t deserve a tenth of the love he received but what else could he do but accept it as best he could?)

He rolled a menthol scented cough drop in his mouth as Zayn tuned his guitar for the tenth time, messing with the strings and plucking them over and over even though it was already perfectly in tune. He was restless and Harry was sorry he kept them waiting but every part of him hurt and he was doing his best. The cough drop tucked in his cheek made his mouth water and it only made it harder to sing but it eased a little of the pain from his throat and it was the best that he could hope for. Louis watched him with his knuckles between his teeth and Harry could do this because Louis believed he could.

“Sorry,” Harry said as he grew impatient of the slowly dissolving cough drop and bit it, cracking it between his teeth. “Let’s go.” He stepped up to the mic and Zayn whooped, ready to go as soon as Harry was. And they sounded fucking good. They knew each other inside and out and they were tighter than they had ever been before. Niall knew the ins and outs of the way Zayn played his guitar and he plucked at his bass in perfect time. Liam followed Harry’s voice and he never faltered and they sounded so damn good Sophia stood by Louis’s side with a grin she couldn’t wipe off. 

“I’m so proud of you,” she said, pressing her hands to Harry’s cheeks for the second time since morning. “All of you.” 

“Thanks, Soph,” Harry said, tasting blood in the back of his throat. The boys wandered off in search of coffee and food, leaving Harry and Louis and Sophia alone together onstage. 

“Be here at five o’clock tomorrow night,” Sophia said, “at the very latest. The show starts at eight. You’re going to be fine.” She kissed him on the cheek as if it was something she always did, her hand on his shoulder, and she squeezed and she said goodnight and she, too, wandered away. The moment she disappeared down the stairs Harry released the cough he had been holding in, his throat clenching tight, and he pressed his palm to his mouth to hide the blood he felt slick and hot on his tongue. He lowered his hand and he tried to wipe the scarlet splash of blood on his jeans but Louis caught his wrist in his fingers and said,

“Show me.” Harry didn’t want to but Harry obeyed. He flipped his hand over and Louis frowned, his baby blues shining as he took in the blood pooled in Harry’s palm. For an agonizing moment Louis didn’t say anything. But when he did his voice was low and Harry knew what that entailed. He was angry. And Harry deserved it. 

“I’m telling you, babe,” he said, dropping Harry’s hand. “Stop making yourself sick. You’re going to ruin your voice.”

“Maybe that’s what I want,” Harry said petulantly before he could stop himself. He wiped his hand on his jeans and he looked down at his shoes because looking at Louis was too hard. 

“That’s not what you want at all.”

“Yeah?” Harry snapped. “And you know that for a fact?”

“Stop pushing, Haz. Stop. Drop the fucking bravado and tell me you’re scared instead of pushing me away every step of the way.” His voice sounded far away and Harry thought he might pass out on the goddamn stage and tumble to the ground. But he didn’t. “You promised me no more running. No more hiding. And baby, am I going to hold you to that.” 

(Don’t call me that; I am a wreck and I’ll fucking break you and I can’t be anyone’s baby.)

It was a relief and it was terrifying to have Louis stand before him, knowing every single goddamn thing about who he was and what he felt, and he had no idea what to do with the taste of copper in his mouth and Louis’s eyes all over him. He hurt and he ached but Louis understood. Louis wasn’t going anywhere and Harry was lucky and he fucking knew it but it didn’t make it easier to know. He was sick and he was twisted in knots on the outside and in and maybe that was how this was meant to be. Maybe he was meant to be sick and small in a huge room and maybe he wasn’t born to die but maybe he wasn’t born to thrive, either. He didn’t know and he didn’t know and the things he didn’t fucking know piled higher and higher but Louis was here and he wasn’t going anywhere.

“Lou,” Harry whimpered, and he didn’t care that his voice broke and he didn’t care that Louis was angry with him because the moment Harry succumbed to the heat behind his eyes Louis was there and Louis was warm and his hands were all that mattered. They stood in the center of the stage and Louis’s arms were strong and he supported Harry as best as he could because Harry was a fucking parasite and all he ever did was suck the life from people but there was something about him that made it hard for them to realize until it was too late. Harry was a heartbreaker and he knew it and Louis couldn’t fix everything but he sure as hell could fix Harry. He didn’t mean to and it hurt his throat but he cried on Louis’s shoulder, snot and tears and spit, and Louis didn’t mind and maybe that was how all of this was meant to go. 

Harry was going to break over and over and over, perpetual motion, a self-sustaining black hole dragging in whatever light and life he could and draining it away. But when he loved he fucking loved with all he had and he had never cried like this before. Louis whispered in his ear, nonsense Harry hardly listened to, but between soft words he pressed kisses into Harry’s ear that eased the pain shaking tears from his body. His head pounded and the collar of Louis’s T-shirt was stained dark from tears and it was okay and it was okay and it was okay. 

“Don’t be scared,” Louis said, his hand deep in Harry’s hair. “You’re safe, you’re fine.” 

(Louis was here and Louis was good and he wasn’t going anywhere.)

Harry sounded pathetic, wheezing and sobbing in Louis’s arms, and he was terrified of needing Louis so badly but there it was and there was no changing it. Louis was fucking small but he carried a lot more on his shoulders than Harry could ever handle. He was good, he was good, he was good. It hurt to cry just like everything else these days hurt him but once he started it was all over. He couldn’t stop. Louis ran his hand through Harry’s hair and Harry didn’t mean to lean on him but his body was so goddamn heavy and Louis was strong and he held Harry up as his knees unbuckled. 

“You’re all right, sweetheart,” Louis said, and that was such a fucking joke. Harry had a goddamn hole where his heart should have been and Louis knew that; he had to know that. There was nothing good and there sure as hell was nothing sweet about Harry’s battered, bruised and beaten up heart. How it still beat was something that eluded Harry as he cried until he was empty. His stomach hurt and his throat hurt and his chest hurt and his hands fisted the back of Louis’s shirt and he was so warm and he stood on his tiptoes to press kisses to Harry’s temple, right where it ached, like he fucking knew. 

“You can do this, baby. I’m not going to let you drown.” There was nothing Harry could do but believe him and cling tight and wait for the aching pain in his guts to go away. 

 

And then it was thirty minutes to go before The Troves’ triumphant return. And it was nothing new to Harry and nothing new to the band when he panicked and locked himself in the bathroom. He was always going to be a fucking coward and he was always going to shake and tremble and gasp for air before each and every show. He was going to go out there; he had no goddamn choice. He wouldn’t (couldn’t) let them down anymore. He owed them and he was going to go out there and he was going to show them what he was capable of. 

All he had to do was stop hacking blood into the bathroom sink. 

Tonight his band knew (hoped) he was going to come out in time to sing for the waiting crowd. Nobody pounded on the door because the return from break meant they believed in him for the first time in years. They trusted him and his stomach hurt and he wiped crimson blood from his lip and stared at his face in the dirty mirror. 

(His cheeks weren’t gaunt anymore; his eyes were on fire.)

But he was pale and his hair was wild and far too long and he looked (like a fucking junkie) sick as he wavered in front of the sink. He could do this. He had to do this. Louis was waiting backstage and the boys were waiting with him and he was running out of time. He was (pathetic) weak and he was stupid and he had no idea why he couldn’t pull himself together. 

“Idiot,” he told his reflection, and in reply he sneered. He knew that. He knew that. Harry heard the crowd roar as he stood; he knew what that meant. Jeff and Nick and Eleanor were onstage, messing with the guitars and drums, and right on cue he heard Jeff say,

“Check, one, two, three,” and Eleanor reply,

“Check, check,” from someone else’s mic. They were good to go. The show had to go on. And Harry fucking Styles was the goddamn star. He was a junkie and he was an addict and he panicked and he sweat through his T-shirt and he had to get his ass out there. He had to. He owed them and maybe it was the first time he would show his face since it was plastered all over TMZ but that was all right. It didn’t matter. It was over and the fans were still here and they weren’t going anywhere. 

Maybe it was about time he showed them he wasn’t going anywhere, either.

With three minutes until show time he dashed up the steps to the stage. Zayn saw him first and his face split into the biggest grin Harry had ever seen.

“Welcome to the war, soldier,” he said, and then Jeff was shoving his earpiece into his ear and Sophia was hovering to get a good look at him and make sure he was okay and Niall was unwrapping a cough drop from behind her. 

“Open up,” Niall said, and Harry opened his mouth and Niall stuck the menthol cough drop on his tongue and slapped him on the back. “You’re going to kill it, Haz,” he said. He was. He was. And then Louis stood before him and Louis wore a smile unlike any Harry had seen before, half anxiety and half adoration, and Harry tucked the cough drop into his cheek to say,

“I love you,” and Louis kissed him hard and said,

“I love you, too.”

And that was all Harry really needed. For the first time Louis had let the three little words pass his lips and when he saw the effect they had on Harry, he smirked and kissed him again.

“Yeah, I fucking love you,” he said like it was a goddamn confession he had been dying to make. The weight of (the crowd and of Lou and of Vegas and of this endless winter ahead) the world lifted from Harry’s shoulders and Louis said, “Now make me remember why.” He pushed Harry and all at once he realized the rest of the band was on the stage and they stood waiting for him. This life was fast and this life was hard but the roar that greeted Harry like a tidal wave when he stepped out on the stage was enough to make him remember the reason for starting this whole thing in the first place. 

“Good evening, Las Vegas!” Harry shouted into his mic, and the crowd went wild. “How are you all doing tonight?” Another tidal wave of noise greeted him and he lifted his mic from the stand to step closer to the crowd. There were thousands of faces far beyond where he could see and there were dozens of phone screens in his face that used to blind him and scare him and make him wonder what these kids were doing here if they were going to stand with a screen between him and them. But then he reached out into the crowd, picking a teenage girl with neon green hair and gesturing for her phone. Without a second thought (because they fucking adored him; what did he do to deserve that?) she handed it to him and he crouched onstage, his back to her, to take a picture with her. She screamed in delight when he handed the phone back and the crowd had never been this loud and maybe Harry was going to be all right with that. Maybe he wasn’t going to panic anymore.

“It’s good to be back, Las Vegas!” Harry crowed, and he punched at the air with his fist to count Liam in for their blistering first song of the night. Liam had written the set list and Jeff had taped it to the stage and Harry trusted Liam that he knew exactly what he was doing. They had never opened with this song before, a two minute panic attack called Candy Apple for a reason Harry had long ago forgotten. It was fast and not once did Harry trip over the words. (His throat hurt but he could do this and the cough drop under his tongue made the pain a little better.) 

As the crowd went mad, bouncing like pogo sticks after the first song, Harry took a bow and joked, “Thank you, we love you, goodnight!” He hopped from the amp he had clambered up on and the crowd screamed in anguish, not used to the new and improved Harry motherfucking Styles. Harry met Sophia at the edge of the stage and Louis stood beside her with his knuckles in his mouth and he looked damn good and Harry couldn’t wait to finish the show and finish Louis on their massive purple bedspread. 

“Get out there,” Sophia said, close to tears for pride, and Harry felt his chest swell with pride of his own, so foreign to him that for a moment he was lost. But there it was and he was okay and he asked,

“I’m doing well?” and both Sophia and Louis said together,

“You’re doing great.” He couldn’t resist; he kissed the two of them before he ran back onstage to yet another overwhelming wave of cheers and whistles and pumping fists. This was where he was born to be. Maybe he had gotten lost on the way and maybe there was still a long-ass way to go but maybe that was okay. Liam pounded at the drums and when Harry caught Zayn’s eye he winked. Never would have Harry believed they could be like this again, best friends performing for the goddamn love of it and for no other reason. When he had been lying in the hospital with a needle dashing in and out of his lip from Zayn’s punches he would have never believed it if someone told him this was where they would be again. 

Harry sounded good despite the blood thick in his throat and he fucking knew it and the crowd did, too, pausing in their screaming for long moments just to listen to him sing when he got close to them. Cameras clicked and it didn’t bother him anymore because he had chosen to be okay. (The world neglected to tell him he could do so when he was a teenager and he wished he could do it all again with the secret in his pocket for his darkest nights.) 

The show went on and Harry was the king of the goddamn world. It was about time he remembered that. 

 

Harry began to feel twinges of fear again as the show drew to a close but for an entirely new reason. He had enlisted Zayn and Niall and Liam and together they had finished Louis’s song. Tonight was going to be the first time The Troves revealed their new song, Of the Color of the Sky, and Harry was so nervous his knees began to quake. The Troves were not a band that was famous for writing slow acoustic love poems and Harry had no idea how the crowd would react to hearing just that. Sophia had approved the song as Harry sent Louis away to buy guitar strings early that morning and she had dabbed at her eyes like she seemed to always be doing for one reason or another. She told him it was beautiful and she recorded it on her phone, standing perfectly still while they performed, to email to the record label. 

The Troves had to come out with a new album sometime, after all, and Harry had more than a few tricks left up his sleeve. 

Liam and Niall left the stage and Zayn followed them, leaving Harry alone in the spotlight. They usually ended with a fist pumper or a slick rock song to leave it on a good note but tonight was different. Louis watched him from the sidelines and tonight was something special. The front row and all the people beyond had eyes only for Harry as he stood like a statue in the bright white spotlight. Zayn returned to the stage with his acoustic guitar strapped across his body and he flashed Harry a smile that said, “You can do this,” and Harry heard it loud and clear. This was different than anything Harry had done before. He was crazy and maybe a little bit stupid but he wanted with all his heart to do this tonight. 

“We have a surprise for you guys tonight,” Harry said, his lips on the mic, and the crowd was deathly quiet. The front row, at least, knew they were in for something new and the cameras they had put down rose up again to glow in Harry’s face. “I wrote a new song a couple weeks ago and I think I want you guys to be the first to hear it.” And there it was. There was no taking it back and no backing down and Harry tilted the mic closer to his face as the crowd began to murmur. “Shh…” Harry said, and the whispering vanished like a puff of smoke. “Thank you. This song is called Of the Color of the Sky and I hope to God you like it.” His throat ached but he could do this and Zayn began to strum his guitar and it was far too late to think of all the eyes on him now. 

The only pair that mattered was the pair this song was written for. 

“Here goes nothing,” Harry said, for himself and for his nerves if nothing else, and then it was too late to quit and Zayn softly counted him in.

“Maybe I’m a little prone to nosebleeds,” he sang, his voice echoing back at him a thousand times through his earpiece and all around the silent venue. “To throwing up and falling down.” Phone after phone lifted into the air as the crowd got the feel for the tempo of the song and began to wave their phones around like lighters to the ceiling. 

Harry smiled because he could choose to not be afraid and he glanced at Zayn who stood with his eyes closed and his head down as he focused, and he opened his mouth because it was all that he could do.

“I know I’m prone to feeling broken, but maybe I still can astound.” He paused and Zayn filled the silence with his strings and the audience before them waited with bated breath. “I’m so used to keeping my head down, to hiding my heart underground. Maybe it’s time to see clearly, I’m better when you are around.”

And there it was and there it was and as he drew in a breath to begin the chorus Zayn had helped him craft in a hotel room in Lake George, he held both hands tight on his mic stand and tried to do nothing but breathe. 

“And I’m jaded and angry and messy,” he sang. “And tired of losing my mind. And I’m sick and I’m slow and I’m scared now, but I’m not when I look in your eyes.” And there it was, the missing pieces of the song Louis had never heard, the pieces Harry wrote when he thought he had lost him. His voice was clear and so was his head and the next verse was harder but Zayn was at his side and all he had to do was let it out.

“Maybe I’m a little used to the heartbreak,” he sang, the memories of his shattered heart and battered chest weighing him down. “To losing and screaming out loud. And maybe this is a love song, but I’m bitter and stuck in the clouds.” 

The second chorus was far easier and then Harry left Zayn alone to strum his guitar until the third and final chorus. 

“And I’m jaded,” he sang, pausing with Zayn’s guitar between words. “And angry…and messy. And tired of losing my mind. And I’m sick and I’m slow and I’m scared now, but I’m not when I look in your eyes.”

And never again would he be able to take this back. And maybe that was okay. 

For a long moment that stretched and then snapped like a rubber band, the crowd was completely still. Until they weren’t. The front row and then the one behind it and the one behind it went wild, phones waving and fingers to the sky, and the noise was deafening and Zayn’s smile was blinding and Harry released the mic he had been holding so tight his knuckles turned white and he backed away and watched the excitement unfold. 

“Thank you,” Zayn said into the mic that had been aimed at his guitar. “We love you. Goodnight!”

“Goodnight Las Vegas!” Harry cried in reply, roaring into the microphone, and with that he and Zayn made their way off the stage. 

“Harry, that was magic,” Zayn said, clapping him on the back as the sounds from the crowd went dimmer and dimmer. 

And then Louis launched himself into Harry’s arms and wrapped his legs around Harry’s middle and he had no choice but to hoist him up and spin them around. 

“Thank you!” Louis cried in his ear, Harry’s hands under his thighs as they swayed just offstage. “Thank you, thank you!” He was warm and Harry was soaked in sweat and it didn’t fucking matter because he had released the song and the dread he felt from hiding it and Zayn said it was magic and Harry thought he might be right. Harry put Louis down and Louis took his face in his hands, drawing Harry in for a kiss that made all the fear and all the worry worth it. 

“Did you like the song?” Harry asked, and Louis pinched him and he looked like he might cry, and he looked damn good in his tight jeans and he had his hair tucked under his collar and some things changed and changed but some things stayed the same.

“Hazza,” Louis cried, “It was fucking beautiful and you know it!” 

“I know it is,” Harry said, and Louis laughed and Sophia threw her arms around Harry from behind and lifted him momentarily off his feet. 

“Goddammit, Harry, did you see how you made those kids cry?” she said, and Harry spun away from Louis to drag Sophia into his arms and squeeze her until she squealed. 

“Did I?” Harry asked, and he let her go and she couldn’t stop smiling and neither could he. 

“Yeah, Haz, Jesus,” Liam said as he walked by with a towel draped across his shoulders. “The front row was fucking crying, you sappy idiot.” He grinned and he walked away towards the exit because the fans were outside and the fans were waiting. One by one Niall and Zayn followed Liam out the door and Sophia waited for them to disappear down the stairs before she looked at Harry and said,

“There’s somebody I want you to meet.” Without waiting for him to panic and tell her no she took his hand and she beckoned to Louis and he followed after them.

“Soph, who is it?” Harry asked, and she looked back at him for a moment to say,

“If I tell you are you going to be scared?”

“I’m scared now,” he admitted, and she laughed lightly in reply. Louis was on his heels and Sophia was always so damn fast and they headed down into the pit that had quickly emptied of screaming fans. 

“It’s the head of Diamante Records,” Sophia said as if that was something simple. But it wasn’t and Harry stumbled and she clicked her tongue at him when he nearly tripped over himself on the way to the back of the empty room. 

“What does she want?” he asked as if it wasn’t fucking obvious.

“She wants to meet you,” Sophia said. “I told you someone big was going to be looking out for you, Haz. Here.” Sophia strode in the lead and out of the darkness in the back of the room a woman walked to close the distance between them with her hand outstretched. She was barely older than Sophia but she had fine lines in the corners of her bright eyes and as she shook hands with Sophia she began to beam.

“It’s good to see you, Lou,” Sophia said to the one and only head of Diamante Records, Lou fucking Teasdale. In return the woman with a shock of long platinum hair reached out for Harry and in a daze he shook her hand.

“It’s good to see you, too,” Lou said to Sophia as she clasped Harry’s hand in hers. “And I can’t tell you how wonderful it is to finally meet the great Harry Styles.” If Louis had not been at Harry’s back with his fingers twisted in his T-shirt Harry would have excused himself to gasp for air. But he was okay and Lou released his hand and she said, “Harry, that song was incredible. Absolutely beautiful. What do I have to do to get you on my label?”

Harry wanted to pass out and he wanted to throw up and he didn’t have enough air in his body to reply. 

“Uh,” he said, and Lou laughed. Diamante Records made legends out of people. Lou Teasdale had singlehandedly chosen her artists for nearly ten years and every single goddamn one ended up smashing records and making it big. 

(The thought of playing shows in arenas and stadiums ten times this size should have scared Harry but it didn’t; it fucking didn’t.)

Harry was struck dumb and Lou laughed out loud at his befuddlement. 

“I guess it’s a lot to take in,” she said, her voice as bright as her eyes. “Maybe we should sit down sometime and discuss this?”

“Yes,” Harry said before he could change his mind. 

“Great,” Lou goddamn Teasdale said as if Harry had any right to be speaking to her at all. “How about tomorrow afternoon before your next show?”

(That was far too soon but Harry was slow and Sophia agreed for him and that was that and there was no turning back.)

Everything about this life was a whirlwind and Lou shook his hand again and she said, “See you tomorrow,” and there was nothing Harry could do but nod and let Sophia lead him away. And it was all too fast and Harry was scared out of his mind but he and Sophia and Louis stepped out into the night and Sophia broke off and said goodnight and together Harry and Louis joined the rest of The Troves as they signed autographs and took pictures and chatted. 

“Harry!” a voice rang out the moment he stepped outside. And then they were on him, bright lights and voices and questions, and Louis held tight to the back of his shirt and it was okay and it was okay and it was okay. For the first time the fans had questions for Louis and he was brave and he didn’t falter for a second.

“Are you Harry’s boyfriend?” a girl with her nose pierced like a bull’s asked. 

“No,” Louis said, smirking like he had a secret. “I’m his soul mate.” The girl laughed and so did Louis and it was okay and it was okay. Harry had not had a night so good in so long and he accepted conversation invitations from fan after fan after fan. 

“Harry!” a tiny girl in Chuck Taylors called. “Sign my arm so I can get it tattooed?”

“Are you joking?” he asked, shocked beyond measure when she offered him the inside of her forearm, and she shook her head feverishly and told him she was serious. “I couldn’t,” Harry tried, but she was silly as she begged, faking a pout until Harry picked up the marker she offered him and scribbled his autograph across her arm. She made a noise like a mouse being stepped on and thanked him and he said, “I expect a picture of that later,” and she promised to post it online for him to see. 

“Your fans are crazy people,” Louis said as they finally extricated themselves from the crowd and headed arm in arm back to their hotel.

“Yeah,” Harry agreed, “and my boyfriend is one of them.” It was the first time for a lot of things tonight, it seemed, and once he said it there was no going back. Never had he put a label on the mess of Louis and him and whatever the hell they were to each other. It was hard and he swallowed, looking down, once it was out in the open where he couldn’t reel it back in. It took Louis a long moment to speak and when he did, it was only one word.

“Boyfriend,” he said, and Harry gulped as he nodded.

“Yeah,” he said, stupid and slow. “If you want.” 

“Yeah,” Louis said, laughing at the starry sky with the biggest grin Harry had ever seen. He looked beautiful, far more beautiful than any song Harry could pen as he said, “Yeah, I want.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> message me with anything @ ourl0veisgod on tumblr. also I'm having trouble writing a description/picking a quote that kind of defines this fic, so if you guys could comment with your favorite quotes from it so far I would really really appreciate that. thank you so much for sticking with this; there's a hell of a lot more to go. the next few chapters are a wild ride of fluff and chaos and angst but i promise you will survive <3


	11. Chapter 11

The Troves celebrated their return late into the night despite the busy day ahead of them tomorrow. Niall and Liam made a trip to a seedy liquor store and came back with Jack and Captain Morgan and a bottle of vodka shaped like a skull.

“How cool is this?” Niall crowed when he pulled it from the brown paper bag.

“Niall is ten years old and he thinks skulls are cool,” Liam said, voice full of affection. All the boys were feeling it tonight; they gathered in the suite Zayn and Niall and Liam shared and talked like they hadn’t talked since they were teenagers. Niall handed Harry a ginger ale, making a joke that Harry would have to be their designated driver tonight, and Harry laughed because he had no choice. (His ghosts and his vices hung over him like a cloud and no matter how he tried to forget them he couldn’t as he popped open his soda and watched Louis take shots of rum with Jeff and Nick and Eleanor.) The room was too small for all of them but that was okay; they scattered over the beds and the couch and the floor by the empty fireplace. 

Harry sat curled up on the stone hearth with his knees drawn to his chest and his can of fizzy ginger ale in both hands. He craned his neck to watch Louis down shots and he couldn’t blame him for drinking. Harry yearned to do the same but maybe he was finally learning from his mistakes. The soda made his throat feel better and he knew the fire of rum would make it worse. He was okay. He could do this. Louis was beautiful as he tossed his head back to laugh at something Jeff said that Harry didn’t quite hear. He laughed with his whole body and he was fucking gorgeous and Harry felt a flare of jealousy that he had to share Louis with all these people on a night like tonight. 

An employee from the front desk called the room and asked them to keep it down and Zayn laughed at him and hung up but he said, “All right, guys. Time to hit the hay.” Niall and Liam and the roadies booed in reply, throwing pillows and balled up napkins at Zayn. “Hey now,” he said, throwing a pillow right back at Niall and hitting him square in the face. “I don’t make the rules.” 

“Why don’t we just go somewhere else?” Jeff asked, and he was greeted with muted cheers. 

“We’re in Vegas, I forgot!” Zayn said with a laugh, and again a hail of pillows hit him. “Okay, okay. Let’s see what the world has to offer. Who’s in?” Harry downed the rest of his soda and he looked at Louis and he wanted to ask him to stay here with him and go to bed but Louis looked so damn happy when he looked back at him and Harry was selfish but he couldn’t take that away. Louis had finally begun to fit in with this part of Harry’s life and he was already tipsy and clumsy from the shots he took and when he asked Harry if he was up for a night on the town Harry lied and told him he was. 

Nightlife in Vegas was like nothing Harry had experience before. It was wild and loud and not for a moment did a hush fall over this city like it did back home in Manhattan. Louis held Harry’s hand, their fingers laced together, and the heat of Louis’s fingers was the only thing keeping Harry on the planet. The lights made him dizzy despite being the only sober person in their little group and he stumbled on the sidewalk just as much as Louis did. Louis’s silver ring dug into Harry’s palm and that was reality and that was safety and maybe Harry could do this. 

Zayn led the way and Zayn was wild and he chose some shitty, dingy bar to pass the time in and the little group wove inside one by one. Inside it was dark and chilly and there wasn’t enough room at the bar for all of them to sit so they shoved two tables together despite the bartender’s feeble protests and sat down all at once. Louis let go of Harry’s hand and he started to protest but then Louis squeezed his knee under the table and Harry tried to relax. The walls were black brick, decorated with a mismatched assortment of photos and memorabilia and old guitars and dollar bills. Vegas life was not for Harry but that was okay. He was okay. They had two more shows in the city and then they were back on the road, back in the old familiar tour bus, and they would be okay. 

At Harry’s side Louis ordered a rum and coke and his fingers slid up Harry’s thigh and settled by the pocket of his jeans. Once he began to nurse the drink before him his hand slid up even further until he found the button on Harry’s jeans and popped it open on the first slip of his fingers. Zayn and Jeff arm wrestled across the table from him and down at the other table Niall and Liam took shot after shot with their elbows hooked together, laughing to the point of spilling their drinks and having to order more. Eleanor and Nick shared a massive blue drink from a frosty mug and they, too, laughed like they had just remembered how and weren’t planning on ever stopping again. 

Harry sipped water with half a lemon squeezed into it and waited for the night to end. He was so glad he could burst that for the first time in a long time everyone he cared about was having the time of their lives. But he was tired and he hurt and it was harder than he thought it would be to watch everyone around him drink like it was nothing, like alcohol wasn’t something they were afraid of, and Harry missed the feeling. 

Louis slipped his hand into Harry’s underwear beneath the table and Harry jerked his knee up in surprise, shaking the table hard enough to knock over Zayn’s fresh Bloody Mary, and Zayn shook off his apology and waved his hand to order another as he mopped up the thick, blood red drink. Harry tried to shake Louis off but his fingers tightened around Harry and it was all he could do to keep from groaning out loud for the whole fucking bar to hear. Louis chatted with Zayn and it was remarkable in comparison to the boys they were in London, when Zayn spat the word _faggot_ in Harry’s face and punched him with all he had. Harry had no idea what they were talking about because Louis was fucking _stroking_ him and it felt so fucking good and he bit down hard on his tongue. But some sort of pain must have flashed on his face because Jeff leaned across the table and said,

“You all right, man?” Harry saw Louis smirk out of the corner of his eye as he feverishly assured Jeff he was fine. Louis was loving this, torturing Harry under the table where no one could see, and he knew exactly what he was doing and it wasn’t long before Harry began to feel lightheaded and hot from the pleasure and the pain of keeping a straight face. 

“Mmm…” he whined because he couldn’t stop it from slipping from him, and he felt his cheeks flush red when Zayn looked quizzically at him. 

“ _Are_ you all right?” Zayn asked, and Harry nodded. Louis was a fucking lusty drunk and he was going to do everything in his power to make Harry cum right here at the fucking table. Harry wanted to draw back and hold it in but Louis’s hand was so warm and his fingers were so soft and as he worked at Harry and pretended to be interested in Zayn’s talk about the guitar he wanted to try out for the rest of the tour, Harry began to unravel. His breath caught in his throat and his gasp turned into a cough and his cough turned into a palm full of blood in his hand. He tried to hide it just like he tried to hide everything but Zayn saw and his face went white. 

“Harry, Jesus,” he said, and Harry scrunched a napkin into his hand to wipe away the blood. Zayn’s eyes were painful all over him and the heat in his stomach was building and building and he was going to cum and he was going to fucking cry and this stupid bar was all too much. He bowed his head and he pressed his forehead to the sticky table and he held his breath as Louis stroked him. It was good; it was fucking good, but Zayn said his name again and he sounded anxious and Harry understood; he was a fucking wreck and Louis was drunk and Louis was warm and Zayn was saying something Harry couldn’t hear.

Harry bit his tongue and arched his back in his chair and the world stopped existing all around him as he bit back a moan and came in Louis’s hand. (He was a wreck and he was falling apart and why couldn’t he let himself enjoy something for once?) Louis kept on stroking him and Harry opened his eyes and tried to raise his head to see what the hell Zayn was talking about but he was woozy and dizzy and (pathetic) tired. Louis wiped his fingers on the inside of Harry’s jeans and then his hand was gone and without the heat in his goddamn pants keeping him centered he began to lose his grip on the noises in the bar. 

“Lou, is he all right?” Zayn said, and Harry heard it and he wanted to say he was okay. But he fucking wasn’t and he was light-headed and all at once he was sliding out of his chair. He hit the floor and Zayn was shouting and everything was too fuzzy and static to focus on. Louis’s hands were all over him and Louis took him by the shoulder and Harry wanted to tell him he was okay but he couldn’t make his mouth obey him. 

“Haz!” Louis cried, drunk and running his hands through Harry’s hair as Zayn leapt across the table and dropped to his knees at Louis’s side.

“Haz?” Zayn said. “Haz, hey!” And Zayn slapped him hard enough to make his eyes fly open and he found himself on his back on the floor with Zayn on one side and Louis on the other and his cheek stung where Zayn hit him but he supposed he understood. 

“Haz, say something,” Zayn said, and Harry grimaced at the pain in his head from hitting it on the table on his way to the bar floor and he said,

“Hello.” The relief that crossed Zayn’s face was enough to show Harry the gravity of the situation and he was sorry and he was so fucking sorry but he was a wreck and he had passed out on the goddamn floor and there was no taking it back. 

“Jesus, Haz,” Zayn said, his shoulders sagging. He was exhausted and it was Harry’s fault but Zayn smiled wanly and he said, “You really are a hot mess.” 

“I know,” Harry said. Zayn helped him up and the bartender hovered close, eying Harry as if he was about to collapse again and die on his watch and Zayn suggested it was about time to go back to the hotel for the night. This time no one objected. Harry felt eyes all over him and he knew he was a fuckup and he knew he was a mess and his health declined and declined and there was nothing he could do to stop sliding closer to completely shutting down. 

“I’m sorry,” Louis whispered in his ear as Louis acted as his tether to the ground on the walk back to the hotel despite the clumsy steps the alcohol in his blood made him take. “I’m sorry, Haz,” he said again as if it was his fucking fault that Harry passed out and that Harry was good, good, good until he wasn’t. No matter how good Harry got he always got worse in the end. Harry shushed Louis as he apologized for the third time and Louis looked miserable on Harry’s arm and maybe that was how all of this was supposed to go. Harry was going to break down and Louis was going to blame himself and Harry couldn’t fix it no matter how hard he tried. 

The moment they stepped inside the hotel Sophia met them in the lobby, her hair a mess, wrapped in a bathrobe with the hotel’s insignia on the front. (Zayn must have called her, concerned and trying to do his best, but Harry was tired and he hated the way Zayn ran for his life the moment Harry realized what Sophia wanted.) 

“What happened?” Sophia asked Harry, but he was slow and Louis answered for him.

“He passed out,” Louis said, slurring enough to make Sophia’s frown impossibly deepen. (Harry needed to fall into bed; it was all he could do to stay upright in the gaudy lobby.)

“Passed out? Why?” Sophia stood on her toes to look hard into Harry’s face and Harry desperately wished she wouldn’t. Whatever she saw she didn’t like and the look on her face turned from anger to fear and pity and back faster than Harry could keep up. 

“Dunno,” Louis said. Louis was good and Harry wondered if Sophia could tell that without Louis holding him up he would lose it and tumble to the floor. 

“You don’t know? Harry, can you say something, please?” He wanted to, he really did, but his throat hurt and his eyes couldn’t focus on Sophia’s face long enough to read her expression anymore. 

“Mmm…” he managed. “I’m okay.”

Sophia’s eyes flashed (she was angry, then) and she stared up at him and he tried to stare back but his vision was fuzzy at best. (What was wrong with him?) “You don’t look okay. Did you take something? Harry, are you _high_?” The accusation stung and Harry wanted to defend himself but he was tired and Louis answered for him anyway.

“I haven’t left his side,” Louis promised. “Not for a second. He just passed out, Sophia, out of nowhere.” He was good and he knew what Harry needed and the next thing he said made Sophia even angrier. “Can I just get him to bed, please?”

“If he’s not well I want him in the hospital, Lou,” she said. She shut her mouth as a hotel employee walked by and the moment they disappeared into the elevator behind them she hissed, “Do you hear me? He looks like hell, doesn’t he?”

“I’m right here,” Harry said, and somehow he was slurring worse than Louis. He was broken beyond repair, that was all, and somehow he always ended up here. 

“I know, I’m sorry,” Sophia snapped. Her face softened and she examined his eyes, pulling his head down to her height so she could check his pupils for dilation or whatever the hell she was searching for. 

“Let me go,” Harry protested. And she did and she leaned back and she frowned and what she said next nearly broke Harry’s heart. 

“Why are you like this, Haz?” she asked. “I want you to be well. Why don’t you want that for yourself?”

(She was asking him more than what her mouth said; she wanted to know if he wanted to die and it was easy to read her fear all over her face.) 

He leaned heavy on Louis and Louis was small but he was strong and Harry told Sophia, “I don’t know.”

(I’m a wreck; I’m a mess; I don’t know why I can’t pull myself together.)

Sophia sighed. She looked small for the first time in forever, defeated and completely spent. Harry was so fucking sorry he thought he might cry but he didn’t. 

“You have to take care of yourself, Haz. Choose to be better. I won’t stand for watching you die at twenty-four.” Her eyes flicked to Louis and she told him, “Take him to bed. But don’t you dare go to sleep unless you know he’s going to wake up in the morning without you watching over him.” With the last word hers she flounced away in a flurry of white terry cloth and left Louis sagging in the lobby under Harry’s dead weight. 

Louis was quiet for a long time after Sophia walked away. Finally he said, “Are you with me, babe?” and Harry told him,

“I’m here.”

“Are you all right?” Louis was scared to death and Harry couldn’t blame him. 

“I’m tired.”

“Okay.” And that was all. Louis helped him up to their room and he opened up the door and half dragged and half carried him to bed. Harry fell on his back on top of the covers and he didn’t know what was wrong with him but maybe it was something bigger than he thought, something that just might be the death of him. His health and his fucking well-being were low, low, low on his list of things he worried about and maybe it was time that changed. 

Louis was good and he unlaced Harry’s sneakers with clumsy fingers and he tugged off Harry’s fucking cum stained jeans and he made him roll over so he could tuck the comforter around him. 

“I love you,” Louis told him. “I love you so much.” Harry had the feeling his sickness had sobered Louis up and he was sorry and he tried to tell him so but Louis kneeled by the bed and reached for his hand and quieted him. “Be good to yourself, Harry,” he said. “I wouldn’t be able to survive if I lost you again.” And that was all and that was all right and Harry was tired and he didn’t know why and he heard Louis speak but it was too far away to hear. He fell asleep wanting to hear every word Louis said, but just like everything else listening was not something Harry was good at anymore. The last thing he heard before sleep dragged him down was Louis saying over and over like a goddamn prayer,

“I love you, I love you, I love you.”

 

Dying was hard but waking up was harder. Harry felt a lump on his head from the table at the bar and he pulled himself from sleep as fast as he could but every single bone in his body pounded and ached. And he was alone. He sat up and he felt miles better, far away from the painfully sick Harry from last night. Whatever anxiety and light-headedness had plagued him last night was gone now as fast as it had come on and that was all right. That was okay. 

He forced himself to roll out of bed and pad to the living area by the door. On the couch there was a note scrawled on hotel paper and he scooped it up and unfolded it to realize with a fuzzy feeling in his chest that this was his first time ever laying eyes on Louis’s handwriting. (How could he be this way and still be alive?) 

“Walking off a night of babysitting,” Louis wrote, his words written in loopy, messy script. “I love you. Call me. Lou.” It was a simple note but Harry pressed it to his chest and thought he knew exactly how Louis would have looked writing it, his tongue between his teeth. Beneath his name Louis had scribbled his phone number and Harry was self-absorbed and self-important and it was nerve-wracking at best that this was his first time dialing Louis’s number with shaky hands. The phone rang three times before Louis picked up, singing,

“Good morning, my baby Hazza bee,” into the phone and making Harry chuckle even though it hurt his head to do so. He rubbed at his temple with the hand not clutching his phone as Louis said, “How did you sleep?”

“I feel like I slept a thousand years,” Harry said, “and I could sleep a thousand more.”

“Sounds about right,” Louis said. (Today was the first time for a lot of things and Louis sounded different on the phone than he did in person and Harry wondered wildly where Louis was and what he was doing and what he was wearing and if he had shaved his face or if he wore the scruff that tickled Harry’s thighs.) “How are you feeling this morning?”

“I feel good,” Harry honestly replied. Whatever had sent him reeling last night had passed and he knew his band and Louis were going to worry but what could he do besides assure them he was fine?

“Good,” Louis said. “I’ll head back now, but you should shower while you wait. The meeting is in an hour.”

“Fuck.” Harry had already forgotten the meeting, the big fucking meeting with Lou fucking Teasdale, and his head throbbed at the thought of sitting still for hours in a board room. 

“You forgot?”

“I did.”

“Well, hurry up and get ready. I’ll be there soon.” He paused and Harry heard nothing but the sound of his breathing on the other line. And then he said, “I love you,” and it sounded so good coming from him, such a relief, that Harry’s knees betrayed him and he had to lean on the couch to keep from keeling over. (Love was like a tidal wave, it seemed, bowling Harry over when he least expected it.) 

“I love you, too.” For a moment they both fell silent and then Harry could hear the smile in Louis’s voice when he said again,

“I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

Louis paused.

“See you soon.”

“Right.” 

(Harry was no good at love; he was slow and kept getting lost on the way.) He hung up the phone and he peeled out of the clothes he had never taken off after last night’s show and he turned the shower on, one hand in the icy water as he waited for it to warm up for him. It took a long minute and Harry shivered naked in the bathroom until the water was almost too hot to touch and then he stepped inside. The hot water eased some of the pain from his body and he let it roll over him, his head bowed, and he heard the door to his room open from far away. Louis set something down with a thunk on the coffee table by the couch and then the bathroom door clicked open and Louis stood, shrouded in steam, in the doorway.

“Hi,” Harry said when Louis didn’t say anything.

“Hi,” Louis replied. He closed the door and without another word he kicked off his shoes and threw his baseball tee over his head and Harry couldn’t see much but the shape of him through the frosted glass of the shower door but still he couldn’t help but stare. Louis pulled open the door and a rush of chilly air hit Harry before he stepped inside and closed it behind him. 

“Hi,” Harry said again.

“Hi.” Louis stepped close to Harry and he looked like he hadn’t slept and Harry remembered Sophia’s threat and he thought Louis had more likely than not obeyed her and spent the entire night watching over him. 

(He was a heartbreaker, after all, and he had no business loving someone who had to give so much more than he did just to love him back.)

Louis wrapped his arms around Harry’s middle from behind and the touch was simple but it was all the comfort Harry needed. He pressed his face to Harry’s spine and he hadn’t shaved, of course he hadn’t, and Harry leaned with both hands on the shower wall and let the water roll over the both of them. Louis was trying to say something with the way he held him but Harry couldn’t decipher it. He let it be. He was too tired and Louis’s hands crossed at his chest and neither of them said anything and that was okay. 

When Louis finally spoke he sounded close enough to tears to send a shiver of panic through Harry’s stomach.

“I love to feel your heartbeat, Haz,” Louis said, and if there was anything left of the mangled mess of his heart it was about to shatter in his chest. 

Harry was slow and he said the only thing that crossed his mind. “It’s for you,” he said, and Louis’s arms tightened almost enough to make it hard to breathe. Louis already knew that. He had to have known. But he coughed to hide the sound of a strangled sob and Harry thought he never, ever cried but there it was and everything causing Louis to hurt was Harry’s fault and there was nothing he could do. He was selfish and he didn’t do a thing to keep Louis from crying. They stood together under the water and Louis pretended he was not crying and that was all right. But then he spoke and there was no pretending anymore.

“I’m just so scared, Haz,” Louis whimpered in between Harry’s shoulder blades. 

“Of what?” Harry asked. (Maybe he could ease it; maybe he could help.)

“Of losing you,” Louis cried, and there it was and maybe Harry was rotten to the very core but he wouldn’t stand for this anymore. He could fix this; he had to. He eased out of Louis’s arms and he turned around and Louis looked beautiful with water and with tears streaming down his cheeks.

“You’re not going to lose me,” he said. 

“Haz, you say that, but…”

“You’re not going to lose me. I’m not going anywhere.”

“You’re so sick, Haz, and you don’t want help…” 

(He was right; he never thought about the consequences of his fucking actions and he never thought about how his fainting and his shaking and the blood he hacked up affected the band and Louis and Sophia.)

“Hey,” Harry said, and he took Louis’s face in his hands. The water cooled down and it felt like ice on Harry’s feverish skin and Louis’s lip quivered but they both pretended it didn’t. 

“What?” Louis asked. His eyes were wide, impossibly blue, and Harry thought he might die if he ever had to look away from those eyes again. 

“I’m here,” Harry said, and Louis’s eyes slipped closed. Harry stroked at his cheeks with both thumbs and wiped water and tears away and he said, “Hey, I thought you never cried.”

“I’m not crying,” Louis said. (God, the beauty of him was hard to take in and Harry wondered how he wasn’t lost the moment he first looked at him.) 

“Okay,” Harry said. “Okay.” The water was fucking cold and neither of them made a move to turn it off even as Louis began to shiver. 

“I’m scared that I’m g-going to wake up one morning n-next to you and you n-not going to fucking be there anymore.” Louis stammered, the tears he attempted to hide brimming in his eyes, and Harry’s heart was fucking broken and maybe it was always going to be that way. (He put up with beating after beating and it was a miracle he even had anything left in his chest at all.) 

“I’m not going to die,” Harry said. “How many deaths to you think a guy gets in his life, hey?” Louis’s sob turned into a laugh halfway out of his mouth and he looked so fragile Harry felt guilty for touching him. 

“I don’t know how long I can l-live like this,” Louis said, and there it was. The goodbye, the so long, the walking away without looking back. 

“What does that mean?” Harry asked, and he tightened his hold on Louis’s cheeks and Louis squeezed his eyes shut tighter. 

“If you d-don’t try…you have to try, Haz…if you don’t try to get b-better, I c-can’t be…fuck.” He winced and he caught his lip between his teeth and he tried more than once to speak but couldn’t get it out through his tears. 

“You can’t be what?” Harry asked, but he fucking knew. He knew. This was goodbye and this was so long and Harry was about to fucking lose him. 

“I c-can’t be with you anymore, do you really need me to say it?” And there it was. Louis was falling apart and it was Harry’s fault and he had to fix this before it was too late, but Louis was crying and Harry was going to fucking throw up or pass out or something if he couldn’t figure out what to do to stop Louis’s tears. 

He kissed him. Harry surged forward and he pressed his lips to Louis’s and Louis was still and he was startled but it only took a moment for him to relax and to part his lips and kiss Harry back. 

“Haz,” he breathed when Harry pulled away, but Harry couldn’t hear it; he couldn’t bear to listen to the goodbye anymore and when he kissed Louis again he finally opened his eyes and Harry was lost. 

“Lou,” Harry breathed. “Lou, I’m sorry.” (Sorry for dying and sorry for living and sorry for not leaving you alone and for coming after you and reeling you back in.) 

“No,” Louis said in reply. “Don’t be.” And Louis was fierce and Louis was fire and Harry had forgotten for a moment but Louis slammed Harry into the wall of the shower and held him there with his hands and his mouth and his hips. Harry was slow and Harry was cold but he kissed Louis with all he had and he took hold of Louis’s hips and slid his hands down and squeezed his ass with both hands hard enough to make Louis whimper. 

“I love you,” Harry said because love was all that he could ever offer. (It would never be enough but he could try and try and try.) In reply Louis kissed him hard, his tongue rolling over Harry’s, and his knees were weak and he had no goddamn idea how he stayed upright in the frigid water raining down on them. Louis was so hard against Harry and Harry was, too, and maybe it was fear that made Louis cling to him but it didn’t fucking matter. Louis was here and Harry was here and Louis slammed the water off with one hand and he dripped and he was glorious and he was all Harry needed to survive. 

Shivering and horny and cold, Harry obeyed Louis the moment he whispered, “Bed. Now,” his voice husky and ragged at the edges. They stumbled together out of the shower and Harry shook his hair out like a dog and they soaked the bed the moment they fell onto it but it didn’t fucking matter.

“Love you,” Louis cooed as he licked and nipped and kissed down Harry’s chest to his stomach. “Love you; I love you.” The tears were gone and Harry was glad and Harry was hot and Louis was hotter. Harry choked as Louis took him into his mouth and the world was steady around him for the first time since landing in Las Vegas and maybe Louis was the rope to tie him to the planet and maybe Harry was the anchor, lost without a tether. And maybe Louis was always going to keep him grounded and maybe that was okay. 

Louis knew what he was doing and his tongue was hot and the soft whimpering noises escaping him were hotter. Harry fisted Louis’s hair and Louis groaned, low and wrecked. His rosy lips were slick with spit and it wasn’t fair; it wasn’t fucking fair that a sinking ship like Harry was gifted someone as beautiful as Louis. 

Louis dipped his tongue to swallow Harry down deep and all he could do was moan at the ceiling and clutch tighter to Louis’s hair (Louis was the tether; Louis was the sun). Harry bucked his hips, desperate for Louis, and Louis was good and he was just as desperate for Harry and maybe that was how all of this was meant to go. They were always going to meet in the middle, the anchor and the rope pulling together, and Harry saw stars as Louis moaned and whimpered and groaned. 

The heat in Harry’s stomach was unbearable; it was impossible that he could feel something so damn good that he felt like crying, but there it was. Louis pulled back and the smirk he flashed nearly sent Harry over the edge. With a shudder that shook his whole body Harry bucked against Louis’s hands pinning his thighs to the bed. Louis’s eyes were dark as they flashed with hunger and Harry waited, holding his breath, for Louis to lean in again and finish him. But he didn’t. He was close, so fucking close, and he wanted to ask (beg) Louis to finish him but Louis was grinning and he was gorgeous and sweaty and his hair still dripped from the shower, icy on Harry’s thighs. 

“Please,” Harry managed. He rolled his hips, lips parting, and he was going to lose his fucking mind. 

“Please what?” Louis asked. He pressed down hard on Harry’s thighs and it hurt and Harry said,

“Let me.”

“Let you what?” (He loved this; he loved torturing Harry, and he was going to pay for it later when it was Harry’s turn to take control.)

“Let me cum,” Harry said. “Please.” He sounded wasted, spent and on the edge, and Louis smirked and Louis danced his fingers up Harry’s thigh but he did not obey. (This was better, so much better than watching Louis’s heart break over and over again; here Louis loved him and here Louis was in control.) 

“Why should I?” Louis asked. (He was fire and he was ice and he dug his thumb into Harry’s hip and it hurt and it was going to bruise, but Harry bucked his hips again and Louis held him down on the comforter.) 

“I need it,” Harry said. “Please, please.” He was going to come apart; he was going to unravel, and Louis chuckled and Harry couldn’t fucking wait to find something in here to tie Louis to the bed with and make the smirk slip from his face. 

“I don’t know, baby.” Louis was good and Louis was soft and he pinched Harry’s nipple and barked a painful sounding laugh when his touch made Harry beg for mercy.

“Please,” Harry whined. “Please.” He couldn’t breathe but in the best goddamn way and he couldn’t think straight for all the blood falling from his head to rush deep into his throbbing cock and Louis thought it was the funniest damn thing he had ever seen, Harry fucking Styles writhing desperate beneath him. 

“My baby Hazza bee,” Louis purred, and more than anything Harry loved, loved, loved the claim Louis put on him and he loved, loved, loved the way Louis sounded when he said, “Mine.”

“Yes,” Harry said. “Yes, yes.” 

“All right, baby,” Louis said. “Cum for me.” He leaned in and he swallowed Harry down and Harry arched his back off the gaudy bed and his stomach ached and he felt it deep in his bones. Louis rolled his tongue and Harry’s eyes rolled up and he was heat and sweat and sugar and finally, blessedly, he let his orgasm take him and Louis’s lips tightened around him as he swallowed. He moaned, filthy and low, and Harry shuddered against his lips and then they were gone as Louis leaned back and wiped at his mouth with the back of his hand. 

“Mmm…” Louis breathed. He was gorgeous and he was sweet and his chest was flushed red as his tongue poked out to lick at his lower lip and Harry couldn’t have torn his eyes from the grace of him if his life depended on it. 

“You’re beautiful,” Harry breathed, and Louis quirked his lips up, the smirk coming back. It looked good on him, so fucking good, and Harry looked up at him and Louis looked back and he said,

“I could say the same about you.” And maybe Harry was scared out of his mind and maybe Louis was, too, but here they were and they were okay and they were alive and Harry was never going to get sick of Louis’s jawline and flushed chest and crystal clear eyes. 

“What are you staring at?” Louis asked, but his lopsided leer told Harry he already knew.

“You.”

“Why?”

Instead of speaking Harry spoke with his hands and it was Louis’s turn to moan as Harry tried to remind him just what all of this was for. 

 

Harry and Louis dried their hair with one towel, throwing their clothes on and falling over each other in the rush to make it downstairs in time to meet Sophia in the lobby. They were late and Harry didn’t fucking care, the ecstasy from his orgasm keeping him warm as his mouth kept finding Louis’s even as they hurried across the room in opposite directions. Louis couldn’t find one sneaker and he laughed so hard he clutched his stomach, grimacing, before giving up and padding down the hall at Harry’s side in his socks. He was not allowed to be in the hotel’s meeting room, anyway, a rule Sophia had apologized for over and over but insisted Lou Teasdale would not budge in only letting the members of the band and her in on the meeting.

Louis was warmth and small hands and smiles as he walked hand in hand with Harry towards the lobby. As they waited for the elevator to bring them downstairs Harry gave in to the strangest urge and he scooped Louis into his arms. 

“Hey!” Louis cried, wrapping both arms around Harry’s neck and laughing into the hollow of his throat. “What are you doing?”

“I’m holding you, what does it look like?” The elevator doors slid open and Harry stepped inside, Louis light and warm in his arms. Louis pressed stubble-studded kisses into Harry’s throat as they rode down and Harry wished he could bottle up the little moment they had to themselves and never let it go. Maybe Harry was dark and dim but Louis was the sun and he had more than enough light inside him for the two of them to share. 

(What had become of the man who didn’t believe in love? He was gone and in his place stood a soft and mushy romantic fool and he didn’t fucking care.)

Louis’s socked feet dangled in the air as the elevator opened and Harry carried him out into the lobby. Sophia stood just outside the elevator and when she saw them she opened her mouth to shout at Harry for being late but she changed her mind halfway through parting her pink painted lips and she softened, ushering them into the lobby where the rest of the band stood. 

“Haz, Lou is waiting in the meeting room just down the hall,” Sophia said as she led him to the center of the lobby. “Are you ready?” 

(He was ready because goddammit, Louis made him stronger than he could have ever hoped to be.)

“Yes.”

“Good. Put him down, will you? You have…sorry, Louis,” she said, rolling her eyes as Louis made soft noises of protest when Harry tried to lower him to the tile floor. 

“The floor is cold,” Louis whined, and Liam began to laugh and he said,

“You guys truly disgust me. I can only hope to someday find someone who makes me want to barf as much as you guys do.” 

“Fuck off,” Harry said, and Liam clapped him on the back.

“You fuck off,” he said. 

“The only one who has to fuck off is Lou,” Sophia said, apologizing again when Louis gasped out loud and pretended to be deeply offended. “Sorry, Lou.” 

“I’ll see you right after,” Harry said.

“We’re already late,” Sophia tried, but Harry was wild and Harry was in love and he took Louis into his arms and dipped him so low his sex tousled hair touched the floor. 

“Haz, seriously, we’re so late…” Harry ignored her and he kissed Louis hard enough to make Niall and Zayn and Liam start making puking noises behind him in fake disgust. 

“You guys are the worst,” Niall said, and they wandered away down the hall where Sophia began to frantically beckon. 

“Opportunity of a lifetime?” Sophia asked. “The biggest record label ever? Any of this ringing a bell to you, you lovesick idiot?” 

“What now?” Harry said, raising his head to look up at her. She didn’t think he was funny at all and she clicked her tongue and that was his cue to listen to her before she started shouting. 

“See you on the other side,” Harry said. He picked Louis back up and Louis straightened out the hem of his shirt Harry realized too late to tell him was dotted with cum.

“Good luck,” Louis said. In reply Harry flashed him his good luck charm, the ring stabbing into his palm, and Louis grinned and Harry grinned back and when Sophia shrieked his name he dashed away backwards so he didn’t have to look away from Louis until the last possible moment before he disappeared around the corner and bumped into a lamp and sent it flying. 

“Haz, I can’t believe you,” Sophia said, her voice half annoyance and half tired affection, and she righted the ornate navy blue lamp and she took him by the hand and she led him to the room where the rest of the band stood in waiting. 

“Are we seriously doing this?” Niall asked, and then Sophia was pushing them inside and it looked like they really were. Sophia pulled the door shut behind them and one by one they turned around to see Lou fucking Teasdale sitting at the far end of the long table flanked by two men Harry didn’t recognize. Lou Teasdale rose as the boys milled by the door and she said,

“Good afternoon, boys. Go ahead and take a seat.” Harry glanced at Sophia and she gestured towards the long table and one by one The Troves sank into the leather chairs lining it. Not one of them sat within three seats of Lou Teasdale and the other men from Diamante Records, Niall and Liam across the table from each other the closest to her. Harry sat across from Zayn and beside Zayn sat Sophia, her hands already folded neatly on top of the table. Harry’s chair was on wheels and he swiveled back and forth, his feet barely touching the floor. It was a long, agonizing moment before Lou Teasdale began to speak.

“So,” she said, voice light. “We have a lot to talk about, boys.” 

“We do,” Sophia replied. Lou was far scarier than Sophia, her face more severe and sharp, and Harry mimicked Sophia and laced his hands together on top of the table instead of sitting on them like he wanted to. There was something about Lou and her quiet men that made Harry feel anxious and small. Judging by the looks on his bandmates’ faces they felt much the same. 

(Was this what success felt like? Fear of the next big thing loomed over them like a storm cloud as Lou seemed to stare into their goddamn souls with her dark eyes.)

“Let me start by being honest,” she said. “I want you on my label and I am willing to do quite a lot to get you.” She watched them like a hawk as they took in her words, and she continued when no one had anything to say. “I can offer you a world tour in stadiums three times the size anything you’ve played before. I can promise you radio play and television spots. And I already have contact with three movies that want your brand new song for their soundtracks.”

“Of the Color of the Sky?” Harry asked. “What kind of movies?” He leaned forward in his chair and it squeaked as Lou mimicked him, leaning towards him.

“Romance and dramas, mostly,” she said with a wave of her hand. “It is a love song, isn’t it?” Harry didn’t even think before his reply made Sophia gasp out loud.

“Well, if you listen to the lyrics it says, ‘Maybe this is a love song’,” he said. Lou looked surprised at his rudeness for a moment before smiling and nodding. 

“I suppose you’re right,” she said. “But what do you think about giving the go ahead? The movie soundtracks alone could lend millions of downloads and Google searches to your band.”

(She was all business, just like Sophia wanted to be, but Sophia _liked_ them and Lou did not seem to feel at all, never mind feel affection.) 

Harry didn’t even think about it before he said, “I can’t.” He did not give Lou time to be shocked at his answer before he went on. “I’m sorry, I can’t. Any other song and I’d probably jump at the chance. Just…not that one.”

(That song belonged to Louis and Louis alone and he couldn’t bear the thought of it playing from iPods at weddings and proms.)

“Can I ask why not?” Lou asked, and Sophia kicked Harry with the sharp toe of her high heel shoe under the table. It hurt but he chose to ignore her. Lou Teasdale was like a viper, he thought, and if he took his eyes off her she might bite. 

“It’s not my song to share,” he said. 

“You wrote it, didn’t you?” 

“I did. But I wrote it for somebody, Ms. Teasdale, and by doing so I gave it away. Do you get that?” Sophia made a noise like a mouse and from the corner of his eye Harry saw her plead for help from the rest of the band with her eyes. But nobody said a word. 

“I see,” Lou said as if she did not see at all. “I suppose we can work out some kinks later.”

(At the word Harry’s mind flashed to the idea he had before of tying Louis down and making him beg for Harry and he couldn’t clear the filthy image from his head even as he stared back at Lou.) 

“I suppose you’re right,” he said, and she did not let on if she caught that he was mimicking her. 

“The next thing I have to discuss is management,” Lou said, and Sophia’s kicking stopped as she froze. “We have our own team, of course, and we’ll be happy to let you hand pick whoever you’d like to manage you from here on out.”

“Well, that’s fucking easy,” Harry said before he could stop himself. “I want Soph.” The boys were silent and Harry was glad; he would take the brunt of Lou’s deadly stare and he could do all the talking. He did not do well with people who made him feel small, his petulant side overcoming any fear he had felt, and somehow he let his worries fade away as he waited for Lou fucking Teasdale to come up with a reply. 

“I understand you want to keep what’s familiar to you,” Lou finally said. “But we do have our own people and…” She flipped through paperwork beneath her hands and Harry felt his jaw clench tight when she had to look up Sophia’s name in her papers. “Sophia Smith?” Under Lou’s gaze Sophia shrank and she looked small and timid and Harry hated the look on her. She was strong-willed and stubborn and she let no one push her or her boys around. But with Lou’s eyes on her she was scared. 

“Yes,” Sophia said.

“Well, Sophia is a manager from your current label and we simply can’t take her as our own. Like I said, however, we want you to be comfortable and we will pass over to you the profiles of our very best…”

But Harry was done. It was stupid and it may turn out to be the worst idea he had ever had but he would not stand for someone who meant nothing to him causing pain to someone he loved. Sophia had protected Harry with her life for almost a decade and nothing in the world would make Harry give her up now. If she didn’t know that she knew less of Harry than she thought, and she kicked him again the moment right before he stood. 

“I want Soph,” he said, hands on the table. “And if we can’t have her, we can’t make a deal. I’m sorry you wasted your damn time, Ms. Teasdale.” And the room was silent and Harry was done and he burst through the door with a clearer head than he had when he walked in. It was stupid and his bandmates were going to kill him and Sophia was going to do worse but Harry owed her his life and he was not going to let her stand by and give them up. The door swung shut behind him and then it burst open again. Harry did not look back to see who followed him. Sweat pooled in the small of his back and his nerves began to catch up with him as it sunk in what he had just cost his band. 

(They had worked so long with nothing more in mind than being the biggest and best band in the goddamn world and Lou fucking Teasdale wanted them and he was stubborn and selfish and he had rejected her without a second thought.)

He never listened to his second thoughts; they were second for a reason. Louis stood waiting in the lobby in his fucking socks, small and cute and warm, and his brow furrowed as Harry neared him.

“That was fast,” Louis said. “What happened?”

“Just wait,” Harry said darkly. “You’ll see.” Sophia’s heels clicked on the tile, followed closely by three pairs of sneakers, and Harry spun away from Louis to face what he had done as best as he could. 

“Harry Styles!” Sophia shrieked, her face twisted up, loud enough to make the girl at the front desk widen her eyes and bury her face in paperwork to pretend she wasn’t there and wasn’t listening. “What the fuck was that?! What’s wrong with you?! Do you have a clue what you just threw away in there?” 

“Yeah,” Harry said. “A deal with a label that doesn’t give one shit about us.”

“You stupid fuck!” Sophia cried. She aimed a punch that landed sharp on his shoulder and she drew back with her hands balled into fists. “What was that about? I thought you wanted this! Do you have any idea the money she was going to offer you?”

“I never started this band for the money, Soph,” Harry shot back. She knew that, she fucking knew that, but she rolled her eyes and the band was still quiet by her side. 

“I can’t believe you!” she cried. “I apologized to her like a crazy person but you’re never going to get another chance with her, not ever!”

“I don’t care.”

“What?!”

“I don’t care. Soph, do you not get that we need you? Without you there is no us.” He thought about it, about the late nights she spent banging on the bathroom door for him, and he added, “Without you there would be no me. I would be fucking dead without you, Soph, and I am never, ever going to stop owing you my life. I am never, ever going to give you up. Not for anything.”

Sophia stood in the lobby with him, shocked and silent, and her eyes welled up with tears that made her eyes swim and Zayn shrugged and finally spoke up.

“He’s got a point, Sophia,” he said, and at that Sophia wailed. 

“You fucking idiots!” she cried, and she flung her arms around Harry’s neck and held him to her as tight as she could. “You fucking moron! Loyal to a fault, all of you, and I can’t stand it!” She shrieked right in Harry’s ear but he didn’t mind, and she released him and hit him again, an open slap on his chest, and her face was lined with tears that she tried hurriedly to wipe away. “Harry Styles, you’re a goddamn menace,” she said, and with that The Troves broke into a laugh. Harry watched his bandmates laugh, shaking with it in the lobby, and all he could do was wait for them to stop and wait for them to realize all at once exactly what he had done. 

(They were going to leave him and he would deserve it, the goodbye painful and sharp, but they deserved to get away from the menace that was Harry once and for all.)

But Niall clapped him on the back with a grin across his face and he said, “You kicked ass in there, Harry. You’re my hero.”

“Seriously,” Liam agreed. Sophia was shocked at their reactions and so was Harry, torn between laughing and asking their forgiveness. But Harry had the feeling not one of them would make him ask for it; they were happy. 

“We couldn’t have anyone separate us from our best girl, could we?” Zayn said, and Sophia wailed again and buried her face in her hands as Zayn draped an arm around her. “We’ve always made our own way, haven’t we? We’ll keep doing what we do best, won’t we?”

“We’ll take over the world yet,” Niall agreed. 

(Harry couldn’t believe what unfolded before him; he hadn’t messed up and he hadn’t ruined anything and the feeling of pride swelling his chest was one he could sure as hell get used to.)

Sophia cried in her hands and Louis tangled his hand in the back of Harry’s shirt and the impromptu celebration in the massive hotel lobby carried on for so long that the woman at the desk asked them to go to their rooms or head outside for disturbing other guests as they tried to check in. 

“You did real good in there, Haz,” Zayn said as they headed up into their rooms. “I’m proud of you. So fucking proud.” His words meant the world and more and as Harry closed the door to his room and threw his arms around Louis he couldn’t keep down the burst of hope that rose warm and sweet in his chest. 

Pride was a feeling he could really get used to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soo....only two more chapters to go before the end of Book 1.....yikes. 
> 
> Harass me, as always, on tumblr @ ourl0veisgod


	12. Chapter 12

Las Vegas was not for Harry but Las Vegas was about to be a shadow in the rearview mirror of the tour bus. With the final two shows in Vegas over and done with in the blink of an eye, Jeff pulled the bus in front of the hotel and Harry was shocked at the swell of happiness that filled him at the sight of it. 

“She’s just as beautiful as I remembered!” Liam said as he was the first one to climb aboard. He dropped his overnight bag into his bunk and Zayn and Niall and Sophia did the same. Just for Harry Sophia had single-handedly rearranged the back of the bus to fit a king sized mattress against the back wall of windows, obliterating the living area (Liam and Zayn and Niall complained half-heartedly for only a moment and Harry was grateful that they understood) and moving the sofa into the crowded kitchen opposite the table. She had kept the old black curtain between the row of bunks along the sides of the bus and the tiny pseudo bedroom Louis and Harry would share. She had taped black curtains to the windows, too, and Harry crushed her to his chest when she showed them and she said,

“It isn’t much but it was the best I could do.”

“It’s amazing,” Harry said. “You’re amazing.” 

“Anything for my best boys,” Sophia said, and she squeezed his arm and returned to the front of the bus to help Jeff set the GPS for their next destination: San Diego. There they would have three days to practice before their next show and meet up with and get to know the first opening band they would have since 2009. Sophia thought it was about time, after all, to establish connections and form friendships once again, now that Harry was (stable) going to be okay. He wanted to take her decision to add an opening band as a compliment, a testament to his ongoing recovery, but the way she fidgeted in the front seat of the bus gave her away. She was scared. And The Troves were terrified to say the least; it was easy for Harry to see that they all felt the same unease he felt at the thought of letting a new set of strange faces into their fold. They were a unit, The Troves and Sophia and the roadies, and they were safe and they were good just the way they were.

But Harry did not want to be scared. He tried, he really did, as the minutes and miles ticked away. He wasn’t scared of anything, especially not some young blood band who invariably thought they were the kings of the goddamn universe. 

And then The Troves were on the road again and there was no turning back. Sophia and Jeff talked in the front of the bus just far enough from the tiny kitchenette that Harry couldn’t hear what they discussed. The rest of the band and roadies just barely fit around the table, Louis in Harry’s lap, and Zayn scrolled through Twitter on his phone and read out loud what interested him.

“Haz, you didn’t!” he cried, and Niall looked over his shoulder at his phone screen to see what made Zayn’s jaw drop so sharply. 

“Oh!” Niall said, slapping a hand over his mouth and laughing. 

“What?” Harry asked. “Show me!” Zayn tilted his phone screen to show Harry the picture and Louis leaned in to see for himself. 

“She really did it!” Louis crowed, barking a laugh at the ceiling of the bus, and Harry covered his face with his hands as The Troves laughed with him. Zayn had found a picture of the girl from Las Vegas who had asked Harry to sign her arm; she had gone to a tattoo shop and gotten the marker inked over just like she said she would. 

“Oh my God,” Liam said, laughing so hard he began to choke on the coffee he nursed in his hands. “Harry, how could you do that knowing she was going to get your damn name tattooed on her?!” 

“I don’t know,” Harry said. “You know I don’t think!”

“That’s the truth,” Zayn said in a burst of laughter. (This was good; this was right, and Harry couldn’t be happier as the band laughed at his expense.) Zayn kept scrolling, tears of mirth in his eyes, and all at once his smile fell. 

“What?” Harry asked, but Zayn was wide eyed as he took in whatever it was he had found. 

“Zayn, what?” Niall asked. Harry shifted Louis in his lap to get closer to Zayn but he tucked his phone under the table so no one could see as he read, mouth agape. 

“Zayn, you fuck, just give us the bad news!” Liam cried, grabbing for Zayn’s phone. 

“No!” Zayn said. He clutched his phone and jerked it from Liam’s grasp and he said, “It’s nothing bad. I’m just trying to figure out if it’s good.”

“Oh, just tell us!” Harry urged. 

Zayn looked down at his phone and read from the screen out loud. “’Troubled Band Turns Down Multimillion Dollar Record Deal’,” he said, reading the headline of a news article. 

“Holy shit,” Liam said. “Is that us?”

Grimly, Zayn nodded. He looked a little green and the anxiety on his face churned Harry’s stomach. Louis had one hand buried in Harry’s curls and his touch was the only thing keeping Harry in his seat as he waited for Zayn to go on. 

“It’s, uh,” he said. “It’s a big deal. Apparently.”

“What, is Lou Teasdale badmouthing us or something?” Niall asked.

“No,” Zayn said. “No, it’s just…I don’t know, someone found out about the meeting and we’re, uh…” He cleared his throat and he looked utterly perplexed as he finally spit it out. “We’re getting an unbelievable amount of praise from fans and from…from everyone, I guess, for sticking with what we believe in.” 

“Holy shit,” Liam said, and with that Harry had to agree. 

“So…” Louis said, stroking the nape of Harry’s neck with his thumb, “what does that mean?”

“I have no fucking idea,” Zayn said. “I’m reading fan comments on the article and it’s…it’s amazing. The support is amazing.” Niall fished his phone out of his pocket and typed frantically at his own screen to join in Zayn’s search. 

“Wow,” he said, his face so close to the white screen he glowed. “You’re the talk of the town, Harry Styles.” He cleared his throat and he read, “’Sources say Harry Styles, troubled front man of The Troves,’ sorry man; their words, not mine, ‘rejected the offer of Lou Teasdale herself, whose company, Diamante Records, is still reeling from the aftermath of losing one of rock music’s hottest rising stars.’ Holy shit, that’s us! Holy _shit_!” He ran his hand through his blond hair and he laughed, disbelief coloring his cheeks bright pink. “I can’t believe this; Haz, they’re dying over you!”

“Who is?” Harry asked. 

“Everyone! Fans and the media and fucking everyone! Jesus, they are _drooling_ for our new song, too! I can’t fucking believe this!” Niall grew louder and louder as he and Zayn read out loud comment after comment from Twitter and TMZ and everything in between. 

“Some kid from Vegas put the new song up on YouTube and you wouldn’t even believe the crying these people are doing over it! It’s not even that good!”

“Hey!” Harry said, punching Niall on the shoulder. 

“Don’t hit me!” Niall said. “Or I’m telling Sophia!”

“Tell her,” Harry said. “I dare you.”

“Shut up, weirdos, I’m trying to read,” Zayn said. “This article is asking what’s going to happen to us, you know, in the aftermath of making the boldest career move this guy has ever seen.”

“We’re nothing if not bold,” Niall said with his face still buried in his own screen. 

“They think this is going to help us,” Zayn said, his eyes widening. “That people will be clawing at the fucking walls to get us! Jesus, I’m gonna throw up.” He put his phone down on the table, completely overwhelmed, and Harry knew the feeling but he wasn’t feeling it just yet. It was unbelievable that a stupid mistake in a chance meeting could help rather than ruin them, and as Louis knotted his fingers tighter in Harry’s hair and gave it a tug Harry leaned his head back on the bus window behind him and tried to imagine what rising popularity would do to them. 

Long ago in a different goddamn life they had had this conversation before. They played for ten people and then for a hundred and then for a thousand and every step of the way they got scared and they fretted and they fought as fear overtook them, but they always were okay and they always got better. This was something different entirely; the only way up was blocked by Harry’s inability to stay healthy and by Harry’s vices and his panic attacks and his shaky (at best) resolve. This was different from rising to garages to arenas. This was playing stadiums and this was the loss of anonymity and this was the beginning of something Harry had feared his entire life: opening himself up for the entire world to see. 

“This is incredible,” Zayn said, shaking his head as he couldn’t resist the temptation and looked at Niall’s phone over his shoulder. 

“It’s really alarming the sheer number of girls who want to deep throat you, Haz,” Niall said, and Louis buried his face in the crook of Harry’s neck and made Niall laugh. “Ew,” he said. “Should I comment that the position has been filled?”

“Shut up,” Harry said, but it was okay and it was light-hearted and he could handle the jokes and he could handle the laughter. Louis pressed kisses into his hair and his ear and Niall pretended to throw up and that was okay. 

“All right, I’m tweeting that Harry is taken and all the girls need to hop off his dick,” Niall said. He typed at his phone and pretended to press send and Harry rolled his eyes and enjoyed the smile on Niall’s face. 

“Man, how is it that the guy who’s not the slightest bit interested gets all the girls pining over him?” Liam asked. 

“It’s because I’m the good looking one,” Harry replied with a shrug, and Louis laughed in his ear as his band grumbled and feigned anger and jealousy. 

“Every one of these articles make a point to call you ‘troubled’, Haz,” Zayn said, and Harry could teach himself not to care if he really wanted to but it was exhausting and he was too tired to fight the anxiety that plagued him now. 

“I am,” he said with another shrug of his shoulders. 

“I don’t think you’re troubled, Haz,” Liam said. “I think you’re just fragile, like a little baby deer or something.” Zayn choked on his spit from laughing and it was startling how easy it was for them to laugh now, light years away from the sobering aftermath of Harry’s near death. It was good and it felt good and the joy looked good on Harry’s boys and he wouldn’t have it any other way. 

 

The miles and the highways passed by quick as they always did and as the sun set over the ocean in brilliant shades of orange and red Jeff pulled the tour bus up in front of their newest temporary home. For their three days of rest they would get the luxury and space of a hotel for one last time before the tour really kicked off again. Sophia warned them to enjoy it and give each other space because they sure as well weren’t going to get any for the next four months. 

That was okay. These were Harry’s best friends in the entire world and they had survived and thrived in smaller spaces than the massive tour bus. For months as teenagers they had slept in a van given to them by Niall’s mother and they had survived that. It had no heat and no air conditioning and after only a few days of housing four sweaty boys it started to smell so bad they had to sleep with the windows open to the rain and to the wind. For a while he wasn’t so sure but Harry knew the truth now; they could survive anything.

He wanted to collapse in his bed the moment they arrived at the hotel but Sophia collected them and said, “We’re meeting your new opening band in one hour at the concert hall. Be back here in thirty minutes or less, all right? And we’ll grab a cab together. Can you do that?” 

“Ugh,” Harry said, but he nodded and the rest of the band dispersed to drop their bags up in their rooms. Sophia had picked the band from a list of hopefuls who wanted the opportunity to open for The Troves and Harry trusted her but the last thing he wanted to do was have to deal with a bright eyed group of kids who would be fascinated and awed by him and the rest of the band. He didn’t want for them to discover that he was a person just like them; a person who had no idea what he was doing any more than they did. He liked the idea of the kids fawning over him, unaware that he was broken and stupid as they were, but they would know as well as the rest of the world did that he had been to hell and back and wasn’t anything special. Everyone Harry touched figured it out sooner or later. 

Harry followed Louis up to their room and for the millionth time in his life Harry tumbled face first onto his bed and pretended he would be allowed to lay there forever. 

“Are you nervous?” Louis asked him, his fingers dancing up Harry’s spine as he sat down on the bed beside him. 

“No,” Harry lied. 

“I am,” Louis replied. “I bet they have the hots for you.”

“For me?” Harry laughed, turning his head to peer at Louis. 

“Yeah,” Louis said. “They’ve probably looked up to you for years and they’re dying to meet you. I just hope they know you’re spoken for.” He made his point by sliding his hand down Harry’s back and into the back of his jeans and pinching his ass.

“Ow,” Harry griped, swatting Louis’s hand.

“Big baby.” Louis’s hand was warm and his voice low and they didn’t have time but what did that matter? Harry rolled over and Louis straddled his hips and looked down at him, grinning madly. “At least the kids will know that I’m the only one who gets to have you in bed.”

“True,” Harry said. “But if I were them I would be a lot more devastated over _your_ unavailability.” 

“Me?” Louis asked. “Come on. Do you even know who you are?”

“Yeah,” Harry said. “I’m the luckiest man in the world.” Louis laughed and he leaned in and their hands and their mouths met and Louis was good and he made everything go away. He stopped the noise of the world that threatened to swallow Harry whole and maybe that was all he ever needed. When Louis moaned his name over and over again he was sure. 

 

With one minute left before they were due in the lobby Louis fruitlessly tried to hide the fresh bruises on his neck.

“You’re an animal, Haz,” he grumbled, tugging up the collar of his denim jacket and tucking his chin down. But he grinned when Harry came up behind him and pressed a row of kisses into the hollow of his throat. “Get off,” he said like it was the last thing he wanted. Harry felt the same; Louis looked stunning in the tight black leather pants Harry had gifted him back in Manhattan and Harry wanted to grab him by the hips and make love to him until he cried. 

“Those pants look amazing on you,” Harry growled in Louis’s ear. “But they’d look better on the floor.” Louis squirmed and swatted at Harry when Harry’s breath tickled his ear but the way his own breath quickened gave him away. “Come back to bed with me,” Harry said, but Louis wiggled out of his reach and stumbled to the door.

“We have new friends to meet,” Louis said, cheeks flushed. 

“Friends?” Harry asked. “We’ll be lucky to get along. Come here.” Louis bit his lip, eyes all over Harry, but he had a lot more self-control than Harry did and he shook his head.

“Later,” Louis promised. “Later you can have me in whatever way you want. But right now you don’t have time to be mine. I don’t like sharing you, either, you know! But you’re Harry Styles and you have a job to do and I am not going to get in trouble with Soph just so you can get- hey!” Harry lunged for Louis and Louis’s back slammed into the front door of their hotel room, rattling it on its hinges. “Get off me,” Louis said, but he was limp and compliant under Harry’s searching hands; he was as gone for Harry as Harry was for him. 

“You’re so damn hot,” Harry purred, watching Louis’s eyes darken with want. 

“Haz, we’re late.” 

“Mmm…” Harry said. “We’ll be fine. No problem. It’s fine.” He had Louis pinned to the door by his wrists and his hips and Louis’s lips parted, the lust on his face hot enough to make Harry groan in pain. Louis was heat and fire and grace and he was the first one to close the distance between them once again, his tongue tracing the shape of Harry’s lip, and the door rattled again as Harry whimpered and bucked his hips. The want that warmed his body and his guts was nothing new. Louis was fucking beautiful and Harry was never going to tire of looking at him, touching him and tasting him and loving him. 

“Fuck, Haz,” Louis whined as Harry leaned in to nip at his ear. “Haz, fuck, not now…” He made a strangled noise in the back of his throat when Harry ignored his half-hearted protests and sucked at the soft skin of his throat. Louis rolled his hips, the back of his head hitting the door as he whimpered at the ceiling, and his protests stopped altogether when Harry reached for the button of his pants. He popped it open and he slid down the zipper and Louis was gorgeous and Louis was hot and Louis was hard and Harry was going to explode for wanting him. 

“We’re going to be very late,” Harry said. 

“Fuck off,” Louis replied, past the point of caring, and Harry knew the feeling. The sharp noise of protest Louis made when Harry pulled both hands away from him was almost enough to make Harry’s knees buckle; as Louis writhed against the door he was fucking sex personified, glorious and hot and messy with his hair mussed and his pants opened up. Harry stood back and Louis made pitiful moaning noises that made Harry’s breath hitch painfully in his throat (Louis was fucking beautiful and he was going to be the death of Harry if he wasn’t careful; his heart seemed to do strange things when Louis begged for him). 

Sophia was going to kill them but Sophia was going to have to wait. Harry’s world stopped for Louis Tomlinson and it didn’t fucking matter. It was all right; it was okay. 

“Haz,” Louis said, straightening his back and shoving off from the door, but Harry threw his arms out and shoved him unceremoniously back against the door with a thud both from the door and Louis’s head smacking it. 

“Stay still,” Harry ordered, and Louis’s eyes were crystal clear as he nodded, his lips parted and his tongue between his teeth. Harry stood back, releasing Louis’s shoulders, and he took in the way Louis’s chest heaved and his dirty sneakers and his hair tucked into his T-shirt that rode up against the door (and Harry was lucky; he was goddamn lucky to have this boy and to have him as his own) and the trail of dark hair leading down to the opened button of his pants. 

“Please,” Louis asked of him, and finally he obliged. (Louis always had stubble on his face and it burned Harry’s lips as their mouths crashed together but what did it fucking matter? Harry was a regular goddamn sucker for pain.) Louis groaned his name, his voice a growl, and Harry kissed him and kissed him and kissed him. Harry was a lot of things and a filthy goddamn lover was at the top of the list. Before Louis he did not know it about himself; before Louis he did not know for one moment the feeling of desperation and want. Harry had a dirty mouth and Louis fucking loved it, in agony as Harry teased him.

“Do you want me to make you cum, Lou?” Harry asked, biting Louis’s throat far harder than he should. He was going to hurt him and Louis was not going to protest and Harry was falling apart from the heat in his stomach and Louis was not any better off. 

“Yes,” Louis said.

“Yes what?” (Two could play at this game; whatever Louis gave Harry he was always going to give back just as bad.)

“Uh,” Louis breathed. Harry pressed kisses along Louis’s jaw and up to his hairline where he smelled like fruity shampoo and the sweet heady scent that was entirely Louis. 

“Uh?” Harry asked. (They were both going to explode; the door was going to rattle off its goddamn hinges; the world was going to fall down all around them and for them and that was okay.)

“Make me…” Louis whimpered, complacent under Harry’s hands. “Make me cum. God, I fucking need it.”

“I don’t know,” Harry said. “You really don’t want to be late, do you?” 

“Fuck you,” Louis cried. He wrestled against Harry’s hands, trying to gain control, but Harry slipped one hand into his underwear and immediately his body went limp. Harry stroked him, his whole body heat and the pulsing beat of his heart. He had never done this before and he wasn’t scared; he was Harry fucking Styles and he could make an arena full of people bow down before him and he could sure as hell make Louis do the same. “Fuck,” Louis breathed. Still pressed up against the wall with the doorknob digging into his spine, Louis dropped his head onto Harry’s shoulder and he felt the sweat on his forehead through the fabric of his T-shirt and Harry was desperate for any touch he could get and with his free hand he buried his fingers in Louis’s hair and twisted and pulled until Louis whined. 

“Again,” Harry ordered, and Louis complied. The sound of his voice drove Harry wild and the next time Louis whined it was in pain from Harry sucking at his throat. Harry was hard and Louis was harder and when Harry dropped to his knees before him Louis let out a gasp that made his head spin.

“Haz,” Louis breathed. “Haz…” Harry pulled down the waistband of Louis’s underwear and with a whisper of leather and cotton his pants hit his sneakers and his underwear followed. Louis was stunning and Louis reached for Harry and he dropped both hands into Harry’s hair. Harry looked up at him, licking at his lips, and Louis groaned at the sight of him.

“You’re so…” Louis breathed, but Harry didn’t let him finish the thought on the tip of his tongue. He took Louis’s beautiful, perfect cock into his mouth and this was new and this was different than anything Harry had ever had before, but Louis was his and he was Louis’s and this was all he wanted. “Haz, Hazza, fuck.” Louis pulled Harry’s hair and it fucking hurt and Harry held Louis by his hips and worked his tongue and his lips up and down the length of him. (It was easy, the mess of all things, and he gave Louis exactly what it was that Louis was so fucking good at giving him; he took in all of Louis and his throat hurt but in the most beautiful goddamn way.) 

The noises Louis made were inhuman, loud and wild and rough, and he was burning hot in Harry’s mouth and he tugged relentlessly at Harry’s hair and Harry moaned in ecstasy at the sharp bite of pain. His knees ached and the smell of Louis was all he could think about and Louis dug his fingers into Harry’s scalp and held him exactly where he wanted him. 

“Fuck, Haz,” Louis groaned. “Good. So good.” He spoke in non-sentences, wanton and broken and coming apart at the seams, and loving and fucking and breathing in Louis was the easiest goddamn thing in the world. Harry’s hands roved to cup Louis’s ass as he bucked into Harry’s mouth and this was good and Louis tasted sweet and Harry could get used to a (lifetime) long time of loving and fucking and breathing in Louis. The hair on Louis’s stomach was impossibly soft as Harry took Louis in and pressed his nose into it, breathing in the sweet smell of him and causing Louis to plead for mercy when he paused. 

“Hazza, baby, you’re so good.” Louis’s hands opened and closed in Harry’s hair and his breathing stopped and then quickened, Harry ’s doing the same (Harry was going to fucking cum; Louis was too good and he could feel the heat in him rising with every breathless whimper out of Louis’s mouth). This was new and this was glorious and maybe Harry was awful at a lot of things but sex was something simple he could be good at. Before he could stop himself Harry let out a moan around Louis’s beautiful fucking cock and his whimper was echoed as Louis cried out in return. 

(Heat rose and rose and rose and this was animalistic and wild and Harry chanced a glance up at Louis out of one eye and Louis’s cheeks were red and his eyes closed and his deep pink lips parted.)

“Hazza…” Louis cried, and he tightened his hold on Harry’s hair (he was never going to get it cut again; if Louis couldn’t pull at his hair Harry was going to lose his mind) and with a moan that seemed to rock the fucking building as the door shuddered again and again from the swaying of Louis’s hips Louis came, hot and salty and slick on Harry’s tongue. The taste was like nothing Harry had ever fucking had before and he swallowed it down, Louis crying out his name like a goddamn prayer. And it was new and it was fucking crazy but there it was and as Louis came down Harry’s throat and on his tongue Harry’s stomach knotted and his eyes closed as he came untouched in his fucking underwear, a cry of desperation on his lips and Louis’s name falling from him. 

“Hazza, Hazza, Haz,” Louis cried in exaltation, and Harry pulled back and he stuck his tongue out to lick hot cum from the corner of his mouth. Louis whimpered at the sight and let himself slide down the door and land on his ass on the carpet. Eye to eye with Harry, Louis smiled with his eyes half-lidded as Harry stuttered in the aftermath of his own orgasm. He dabbed with his thumb at Harry’s lip and Harry took it into his mouth, Louis’s eyes closing at the feeling, and he said, “Harry, don’t tell me that was your first time.”

“It was,” Harry said. Louis slipped his thumb from Harry’s mouth and he groaned once more, his back shaking the door. Harry’s knees hurt and he had the taste of Louis all over his tongue and he felt like the goddamn ruler of the universe as Louis rolled his eyes to the ceiling and took in a deep, shuddering breath. 

“So…fucking…good,” Louis moaned. 

“Yeah?” Harry asked.

“Yes. The best. The best.” (And maybe Harry was the ruler of the only goddamn universe that mattered; whichever one Louis resided in.) His head lolled, his recovery from the orgasm that had sent him tumbling to the carpet slow going, and he only frowned a little when Harry said,

“We are so late.” 

“Fuck off,” Louis said. 

“We gotta go.” Louis sat with his bare ass on the carpet, his tight pants and his underwear still around his goddamn ankles, and Harry pulled at the hair on his knee and made him squirm. 

“You’re gonna go meet the opening band,” Louis said, eyes rolling to meet Harry’s, “with cum in your pants?”

It must have been fucking obvious, then, that Louis’s orgasm had sent him reeling with one of his own, and it didn’t fucking matter. He came without even touching himself and it was wild and it was new but maybe wild and new was something Harry could get used to. “I guess I am,” he grinned. 

“Fuck.” Louis closed his eyes again as if Harry was too much for him to look at for too long and his eyebrows creased together as he said, “God, that’s fucking hot.” 

“You’re fucking hot.” Harry lunged forward and kissed Louis hard, Louis kissing him back with soft and sweet lips. “I love you,” Harry said. “Let’s go meet these assholes.”

Harry poked at Louis’s bruises in the elevator and Louis blushed, color creeping into his cheeks, and Harry laughed at Louis’s embarrassment. 

“Soph is going to take one look at you and know exactly why we’re so late,” Harry teased. 

“Right,” Louis said, dabbing one finger at the drying cum stain on Harry’s jeans. “She’ll notice it on me.” Harry pushed him and Louis laughed and the elevator opened and the band stood waiting, Sophia pacing the lobby, and the moment she saw them she cried,

“Hurry, you horny fucks! What are you, high schoolers?” Niall barked a laugh and the blush on Louis’s face was exhilarating to Harry, warm and lovely. 

“Sorry, Soph,” Harry offered as he chased her and the rest of The Troves out of the building to a waiting cab. “But if you look as good as I do it gets a little hard to shake the admirers off.” Louis punched him on the arm and Liam and Niall nearly fell over each other laughing, clapping Louis on the back and shoving him playfully into the cab.

“You guys are fucking disgusting,” Niall said, and Liam replied,

“Yeah, but we’re just saying that ‘cause we’re jealous someone on this tour is getting some and we’re stuck circle jerking in our bunks.”

“Boys!” Sophia said with a roll of her eyes. And then they were on their way. Sophia scrolled through her phone as they rode, squished together in the cab. “Okay,” she said. “They’re called Pilot’s Poison and they’re from upstate New York, just like you guys. Uh…” She pressed the screen of her phone and said, “They’re a four piece. The lead singer and guitarist, his name is Luke Hemmings. The other guitarist’s name is Michael Clifford, the bassist is Calum Hood, and the drummer is Ashton Irwin. Got it?”

“Nope,” Zayn replied, making Sophia look up and glare at him. “I’m joking, Soph! Calm down, we really can handle this!” 

“We can,” Harry agreed, telling himself more than anything. 

“Anyway,” Sophia said, glancing again at Zayn to make sure he kept quiet and let her talk. “They’re a couple years younger than you guys, twenty-one at the oldest, and they’re going to be with you for the next four weeks. After that they have to start their own tour and we’ll find someone else when it gets closer and we have more time; you boys run me ragged and I haven’t had time to pick someone else…”

“It’s okay, Soph,” Liam assured her. “Thank you.” 

“For everything,” Niall agreed. She blushed and tucked away her phone in the pocket of her familiar gray blazer and straightened out her skirt as if she needed to. The rest of the ride was quiet and Louis had one hand on Harry’s knee because he was good and he knew Harry needed a steadying hand (Louis was the tether and Harry was always going to be the pulling, yanking, heavy anchor). For the millionth time they pulled up to a brand new concert hall and piled out onto the pavement. 

“We are so late,” Sophia said with a glance at the pink watch on one wrist. “Get in there; I’m sure they’re going crazy waiting.” There were three stone steps leading to the open front door of the venue and Harry was the first inside. This place was a lot less gaudy and a lot less intimidating than the venue in Las Vegas; this place was smaller and darker and Harry felt something beyond fear while first stepping foot into a new venue for the first time in a long time. 

“This is cozy,” Liam said, peering around the entrance hall with black painted walls dotted with posters of long ago concerts. Once the sound of shuffling sneakers died down, The Troves standing still in the lobby of the venue, Harry could hear voices coming from down the hall.

“That must be them,” Sophia said, the way she twisted her hands causing Harry’s stomach to flip flop; if she was nervous, he should be terrified. “Well, go on!” She gave Harry a gentle nudge and one by one Louis and the rest of The Troves followed him towards the back of the building. Harry’s sneakers slapped the black tile floor and Louis tripped more than once over him as they walked. 

“I feel like I’m heading to the electric chair,” Zayn whispered, and somehow Harry knew exactly what he meant. An opening band meant letting people in and letting people in was not something The Troves were ever going to be good at. 

“Don’t be assholes,” Sophia whispered back, jabbing Zayn in the back with one sharp fingernail. 

“So, you’re telling us to not be ourselves?” Liam joked as Harry passed the threshold of the last room at the very end of the hall. The band and Sophia and Louis spilled into a tiny room the size of a shitty motel room and a set of stairs led from where they stood up to the stage where the voices and laughter were coming from. 

“Go,” Sophia urged, and with one last look back at his bandmates Harry went. He climbed the steps, counting as he stepped, and he was out of breath by the time he reached the top but for everyone’s sake he pretended he wasn’t. And there they were. Six heads turned to face Harry and the rest of his band as they each reached the top of the stairs. Immediately Harry was able to pick out the front man, Luke Hemmings, a man Harry had never heard of. Front men had a look about them, oozing confidence and ego and bravado that Harry saw in every other front man but himself. And then Luke was coming at him with his hand outstretched, his shock of dirty blond hair falling in his eyes, and he opened his mouth marred by a large black lip ring to greet them. 

“Harry fucking Styles!” he crowed, his voice far too loud for a stage this small. He took Harry’s hand and shook it, shaking Harry’s whole body along with it. “Jesus, I can’t even tell you how amazing it is to meet you. I don’t even know what to say!”

“It’s nice to meet you,” Harry replied, wishing Luke would let go of his damn hand. But when he finally did the next man stepped up in front of him, his smile making him look like a happy dog.

“Michael,” the man said, shaking Harry’s hand twice as hard as Luke had. “You look good. I mean…well, you know what I mean! I’ve had a poster with your damn face on it hanging on my wall since freshman year and you look even better in person!”

“You’re such an idiot,” the third young, fresh faced man said, looking between Harry and the fourth member of the band who stood quiet at his side. “In case you can’t tell, we’re a little star struck.”

“That’s okay,” Harry replied because there was nothing else he could say. Already he had forgotten the band’s name and he was not about to ask. The Troves made their rounds, shaking hands and making introductions as if they needed to, and then the new band’s manager, a man in his late twenties, introduced himself and the band’s sole roadie, a man with fiery hair and freckles on his friendly face. 

“I’m Adam Wilkinson,” the manager said, leaning close to Sophia to shake her hand (Sophia looked frazzled by the speed at which introductions were made to say the least). “And this is Ed, our roadie.” Ed smiled and offered a shy wave and Harry was relieved that someone around here was just as meek as he was. 

“And…” Luke said. He peered behind Harry and after a moment Harry knew why; Louis twisted his hand into the back of Harry’s shirt as Luke’s eyes fell on him. “You’re him, aren’t you? The guy Harry wrote Of the Color of the Sky about? Everyone is talking about you; I couldn’t believe it when I heard that Harry fucking Styles had fallen in love with a guy and written his first ever sappy love song!” 

Louis tightened his hold on Harry as Harry answered for him, stomach dropping just enough to feel it. “Yeah. He’s the one.”

“Louis,” Louis said, stepping out from behind Harry to offer one slim hand to Luke. “My name is Louis. It’s really nice to meet you.” Luke looked down his nose at Louis for such a long moment that Harry felt his hands ball into fists (what was he thinking, staring at Louis like that?). But then he smiled and he shook Louis’s hand, shaking his head along with it.

“So you’re the great love of Harry’s life, then, huh?” Michael asked from behind Luke.

“Yeah,” Harry said. “My boyfriend.” (He never got tired of feeling the word on his tongue; the claim he had on Louis the best thing he had ever tasted.)

“Well we’re real happy for you, Haz,” Luke said.

“Harry,” he corrected. (A perfect stranger would not get to call him that; it was reserved for the people who knew him well enough to know he was beginning to drown in this conversation.)

“All right, then; Harry,” Luke amended. He couldn’t have been farther from Harry, loud and big and bold where Harry was small and quiet and introverted. He waved his arms as he spoke and Harry watched his hands instead of his face. “When we saw what happened to you on the news we were really scared,” he said, and Harry could feel Sophia’s eyes on him, waiting for him to panic at the change in the conversation, but this man was a kid and Harry wasn’t scared of him. 

“We thought we were going to lose you!” Luke went on. “I’m real glad you pulled through.”

“Yeah,” Harry said. “Me too.” 

“Is it true that you actually _died_?”

` “Luke!” his manager scolded, but Luke had eyes only for Harry. 

“Yeah,” Harry said. “I’m back from the fucking dead.”

“Holy shit.” 

“Yeah, I guess you could say that.” (Harry hated the way this kid looked at him; the reverence was something he expected but would never get used to.) Sophia was good and she intervened, interrupting the conversation to ask Harry if he was ready to get to know the opening band. “Yeah,” Harry said, sizing up Luke as he beamed. “Sure thing.”

The Troves sat in hard plastic chairs in the audience as the opening band set up the stage to show them what they were made of. Harry whispered to Sophia to ask her what they were called and she bit back a laugh, so different from the Sophia who had shouted at him in Denver that he needed to pay closer attention.

“Pilot’s Poison,” she whispered in his ear. When she pulled back she dropped him a wink and Harry felt a swell of love for her (no matter how many times she saved him he never stopped feeling the tidal wave of relief that she brought with her). “Now pay attention.” She pinched his side to get him to look up at the stage as Luke, bright red guitar strapped to his chest, took the stage with the microphone in both hands. 

“We’re really nervous,” he said into the mic. He looked directly at Harry and Harry looked directly back (Louis had one hand on his knee and it was all that Harry needed to stay calm). 

“I would be, too, if I stood in front of the greatest damn band in the world,” Liam joked, and the tension left the air as Pilot’s Poison laughed with him. They were almost too perfect, young and free of scars and bags under their eyes. (At their age The Troves had already begun to fall apart.) Luke shook his hair from his eyes and he said to Harry,

“Be brutal with us. We want to sound like we deserve to be up here opening for Harry fucking Styles.” 

“For The Troves,” Harry corrected, but Luke either did not hear his protest or he chose to ignore it. 

“Okay,” Luke said. “This song is called Bury Me.” He counted in his bandmates (Harry had forgotten their names but what did it really matter?) and they began to play. Immediately Harry could hear the hours and hours of practice behind the song; they were tight and they sounded like they fit together perfectly. But they were rough around the edges, the guitar just enough out of tune to make Harry wince, and he watched them with Louis’s hand in his lap and Louis tapping his other hand to the beat. It was a simple four chord punk song, the kind Harry used to write by the dozens as a kid, and it was easy to listen to and easy to enjoy. The audience was going to eat them up. 

Zayn leaned towards Harry to whisper in his ear, “This is creeping me out; they’re like a mini us.” Harry nodded in agreement and Zayn stifled a laugh that the front man noticed with a frown. “Oops,” Zayn laughed once he looked away. This was a band that took criticism to heart; Harry could see it in the way the front man’s demeanor changed once he noticed Zayn not paying close attention. He straightened up, both hands on the mic, and he leaned towards the edge of the stage towards The Troves. He was a solid front man, charisma in his voice, but he was no Harry fucking Styles, that was for sure. 

The song roared to a close with a screech of guitar strings and the room fell silent, Harry’s ears ringing from the noise of their music, and the front man spoke into the mic. 

“How was that?” he asked. Harry glanced at his bandmates, asking them to reply, but Niall shrugged and Liam looked away; neither of them were going to help him out. 

“Good,” Harry said. “Really good. We’re uh…” He tried to find the right words but they got lost when the front man looked at him like he either wanted to kiss the ground Harry walked on or strangle him with his bare hands; it was impossible to tell.

“We’re glad to have you on our team,” Sophia finished, professional when The Troves simply could not manage it. Harry wanted to correct her but he didn’t. They were already a team and this band (what was it again?) was going to be a blip on their radar. They weren’t going to be around long enough to befriend; what did it matter if they thought The Troves were just a little condescending and cold? (They were, after all, at least to anyone who was new.) 

“What’s wrong?” the front man asked, and Sophia opened her mouth to reply. But he was looking straight at Harry and Zayn, his eyes wide with confusion (or fury). 

“What do you mean?” Harry asked, Zayn stiffening at his side. Zayn was a good friend, the best damn friend Harry could have ever hoped to get, but he was impatient with people and he was quick to speak his mind, no matter how vile. (He had been the one to scream at Harry in front of the damn kids waiting in line, after all, ugly slurs falling from him in his anger.) Harry had not seen that side of him in long enough to start to forget. But then there it was as Zayn looked up at the opening band. 

“You two didn’t like the song?” the front man asked, more accusation than questioning in his voice, and a younger Harry would have already been out of his seat looking for a fight. This kid wanted the world from The Troves, it seemed, and a younger version of the band might have gone in swinging. But they were better now. They didn’t like to fight; they hated it. But Zayn did not. 

“It was fine,” Zayn said. “But I just have this feeling it’s your attitude I’m not so keen on.” The boy standing behind Luke with his guitar held loosely in one hand dropped his jaw, his mouth falling open. The front man did not see; he had eyes only for Zayn. 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Luke asked. Louis tightened his fingers in Harry’s, just for a moment, and Louis hated fighting and Louis would want to run and Harry had to admit he felt much the same. He was tired and his stomach hurt, knots twisting his guts, and Zayn always let it all out without warning and he was on fire.

“Look,” Zayn said. “If you’re standing up there just to get our approval you’ve come to the wrong band. In case you didn’t know, we don’t give a fuck what you sound like. We just want someone who’s not going to give us shit all the time, do you hear me? It’s none of your damn business what we do and it’s none of ours what you do.”

“Zayn!” Sophia barked, slapping his thigh with one sharp hand, and Zayn ignored her. Ignoring her was something each member of this band did with expertise. 

“Where is this coming from?” the drummer asked, safe behind his kit far away from Zayn.

“It’s nothing to do with you,” Zayn told him, and the truth came out. “You,” he said to the front man, “have no right to ask my best friend about anything to do with what happened to him. Don’t ask him about drugs, don’t ask him about music, and _don’t_ ask him about his damn _sex_ life. It’s none of your damn business.” Sophia buried her face in her hands, embarrassed into hiding, and Zayn shrugged and said, “I just wanted to get that out in the open. Seriously, though. Your music is great. Welcome to the damn tour.” 

He fell silent. He crossed his arms over his chest and the band on stage stood perfectly still as if they had turned to stone under Zayn’s gaze. And Harry wanted to throw his arms around Zayn and squeeze until he threw him off. (How, how, how did Harry get the kind of luck it took to get Zayn as his best friend? It was remarkable; it was incredible, that after all this time Zayn did all he could to protect him.) Harry’s heavy heart soared, weight lifting from him that he had forgotten was there (Zayn still cared; Zayn still loved him) and there was nothing he could do but squeeze Zayn’s thigh and whisper a low,

“Thank you.” 

“Whatever, man,” he said loud enough for the open-mouthed opening band to hear. And then under his breath with a wink, “Anything for you.” Harry laughed and so did Zayn and Sophia raised her head to wave the opening band on, asking them to please play a few more songs for The Troves to get a feel for their sound, and after a long moment of silence the front man turned around to face his drummer and guitarist and bassist as they picked out their next song. This one was longer, less frantic and calmer, and Harry leaned back in his chair with his best friends at his side and tried not to think of all the shit these kids had to look forward to opening for a band like The Troves. They were messy and not always all together and hard to get along with and maybe that was okay. Maybe the opening band had their shit together enough for it not to matter. But the longer they played the more Harry saw the cracks in their confidence; they cared far too much what Harry and the rest of The Troves thought and that was going to ruin them. 

Harry wanted to warn them. He wanted to tell them to let things go (but not their friendship; letting that fade was like losing a limb) and to not take themselves so seriously (but when had Harry ever followed through with that advice?) but he didn’t. He watched them play and they were so damn similar to how The Troves used to be as kids and Harry let his eyes slip closed as he let the music take him back. 

 

The Troves were due onstage in less than thirty minutes. Pilot’s Poison was finishing up their set, insistent on confetti cannons that Jeff had grumbled as he helped Ed install, and from the bathroom Harry listened to them roar through their last song. His throat was on fire, the taste and the slow, agonizing burn of vomit on the back of his tongue. No matter what he told himself (he was fine, he was good, this was okay and there was nothing to be afraid of) he always ended up back on his knees, hanging onto the toilet like a life preserver. He dry heaved with his sweaty hands slick on the sides of the toilet and Louis fussed with his hair and swept curls back from his sticky forehead as he cooed in Harry’s ear. 

“It’s okay, baby,” he said. “You’re okay.” Harry retched again, pain tearing at his throat, and tears welled up hot behind his eyes from the strength it took to keep from throwing up again. 

“Puke if you have to,” Louis said, tucking loose strands of hair behind Harry’s ear. Harry leaned into his touch, grateful beyond measure that Louis was there and he wasn’t going anywhere, but his stomach turned and he heaved again, coming up with nothing. “You’re gonna blow a blood vessel if you don’t stop hacking up nothing,” Louis said. 

He was right; it hurt to sit there choking on spit and air but there was nothing Harry could do. Harry was not meant to be part of a crowd. He was not meant to mingle and make friends and hang around at shitty bars like the opening band liked to do. The past two nights after long practices they had pleaded with Harry to join them, dragging along a more than willing Zayn and Niall and Liam, but Harry had to stay behind because he didn’t have a goddamn choice. He was not meant to do this and he was losing his mind for the thousandth time, his throat on fire and pained tears on his cheeks. 

The next time he retched he finally came up with something, blood dripping dark from his lips into the white porcelain. 

“Oh, baby…” Louis breathed, voice so gentle Harry wanted to beg for him to be quiet because he didn’t deserve the goddamn sympathy; he brought this on himself. Louis stood and he wound a paper towel around one hand and crouched by Harry’s side. “You’re all right, honeybee,” he said. He wiped at the blood drying on Harry’s chin and on his lips and he said, “Do you want me to ask Sophia to stall for you?”

“No,” Harry barked, a spike of agony stabbing at his raw throat. He wiped his mouth, snatching the paper towel from Louis’s hand, and with his free hand he flushed the toilet. He could do this. He could do this. There were so many fucking people out there who looked up to him and needed him and wanted him and he could give them Harry fucking Styles if they wanted him. Louis stayed put on the ground as Harry rose fast enough to make his head spin. 

“Are you coming?” Harry asked, his voice a strained squeak.

“Are you singing?” Louis asked. He looked so beautiful and so small crouched on the linoleum floor that Harry wanted to pause the show, pause the crowd for just long enough to kiss the hurt from his face. But he couldn’t. He had to go. He had a job to do and he might blow his goddamn voice out in the process but he was fine and he was going to be fine and this had to all be in his damn head because there was no reason for him to be coughing up blood like his insides were ripping apart. (What was he, a broken, pathetic man who couldn’t stand up in front of kids who loved him?) 

“I’m singing,” Harry said. Louis rose up to his tiptoes, knees cracking, to look hard into Harry’s eyes. No one could read him like Louis could and the look Louis gave him burned. 

“You’re going to hurt yourself, baby,” Louis said. “Do you get that you could break your voice, Haz, and never be able to sing again?”

“Maybe it’s for the best.” (He didn’t mean that; he didn’t mean that.)

“Bullshit.” (Louis saw, Louis knew.)

“I’m fine.”

“Haz.” Louis took hold of his arm when he tried to walk away and Louis was always going to be the goddamn rope and Harry was never going to stop being the anchor that yanked relentlessly trying to get away. (What was wrong with him?) 

“What?” He was gorgeous, he was fucking beautiful, and his eyes were stern and Harry deserved every hit he got. 

“I’m not going to lose you,” Louis said. “I won’t. I don’t know how many more ways I can say it, Haz. You need to take better care of yourself, baby, before you slip away from me again.” Louis took Harry’s face in his hands and he buried his fingers into the hair at the nape of his neck and it hurt and Harry was tired and he closed his eyes because it made all the pain go away. 

“What are you so afraid of? Why can’t you let yourself be happy?”

“You make me happy.”

“Hazza, please. Sweetheart, please. You’re so goddamn beautiful, Haz, and I don’t know why you keep on hurting yourself and I can’t figure out what it is that I’m missing. What can I do to make you better? Tell me, baby, because I’ll do anything.” And he stood there with Harry’s cheeks in his palms and Harry was so late and he could hear from far away the crowd screaming for him, screaming his name and his alone, and when did a ticket to see The Troves become a front row seat to the destruction of Harry Styles? Louis was right and Louis was good and Harry took hold of Louis’s hands and he pressed kisses into Louis’s palms and he had nothing to say, no excuse for the (depression) pain he couldn’t shake no matter how happy he wanted to feel, and Louis wouldn’t look at him and Harry deserved it.

(Maybe it was damn time to let him go.)

Harry tightened his hold on Louis’s hands enough to make Louis gasp in pain and Harry tried to press down the thought that scared the life out of him. He would not let Louis go; he couldn’t; he wouldn’t make it. How many deaths did one man get in a lifetime? Harry had no idea but he had the feeling there was more than one grave with his name on it. 

“Are you going to sing?” Louis asked again. Harry was scared and he was on fire but he nodded and he nodded and he wiped at his lip. His hand came away red and he rinsed it in the sink and by the time he made it to the stage Sophia was ready to scream and the moment he stepped up to his mic the crowd went wild. Louis watched from backstage and Harry felt only his eyes on him, not the thousands of pairs of eyes belonging to the frantic crowd. 

“Good evening, San Diego!” he shouted, and if the audience or his band noticed the ragged edge to his voice no one made a sound. (It was only a matter of time before he lost it altogether.) “How are you tonight?”

Bang. The crowd went mad.

“We’re The Troves and we’re here to play you a little music!” Harry shouted into the brilliant white lights of his spotlight. 

Bang. The crowd screamed at the top of their lungs. 

“Ready?” he cried to his band, his friends, the boys who never ever let him down. “One, two, three, four!” And he hopped up on his amp and he wrapped his microphone cord around and around his arm and he was okay, he was okay, he was okay. His voice broke, cracking painfully more than once, and he couldn’t stop tasting the salty metal tang of blood in the back of his throat and all damn night he swallowed it down and he kept a straight face because it was his job to stand there and sing and he could sure as hell do it. 

And he sang his goddamn heart out and the moment he stepped offstage he slammed back into the bathroom and puked up all the blood in his stomach and this time he did it alone. Louis did not chase him. And he deserved the pain that followed. He was a goddamn noose and it was only a matter of time before he caught around Louis and strangled him. 

 

The next night was better. The one after was better yet. They were on the road, playing San Francisco and Oregon and Washington and places they didn’t sit still long enough to grow comfortable in. Pilot’s Poison rode behind their tour bus in a beaten up old van and every night they amped the crowd and after the shows they partied in the tour bus and Harry and Louis explored every city to avoid whatever it was that the band dabbled in. The first night the bus smelled like shitty weed and the night after it was booze, Jack Daniels and garbage vodka with orange juice spilled haphazardly on the kitchenette counter. Louis was good and he held Harry’s hand as they walked together through town after town, the farther north they rode the higher Louis buttoned up his gorgeous red wool coat. 

For the simple beauty of him Harry was grateful. For the peace he gave him he was never going to be able to repay him. Louis made him tuck cough drops under his tongue before and after every show and he made him hot tea and ordered him not to talk for hours at a time (enjoying it far too much when he slapped a hand over Harry’s mouth during slow, torturous sex in the back of the bus). Louis was good and he took care of Harry and he called him baby Hazza bee and it was okay because with everything he had Harry ached to be okay. 

After aiming north and then nose diving back down, The Troves arrived in Phoenix, Arizona to a searing hot late autumn. Jeff clicked the air conditioning in the bus on full blast but still it took hours to cool down, the band lounging in various stages of undress in the kitchenette much to Sophia’s chagrin. She grumbled and sat up in the front with Jeff to avoid watching them play cards on the table in their underwear. Zayn won his third round of War against Liam and Niall laughed as Liam threw his cards down in frustration and Zayn scooped the pocket change Liam had offered up into his hand. 

“Again?” Zayn asked, and begrudgingly Liam nodded. 

“Deal me in, you bastard.” Louis barked a laugh at the ceiling and Harry couldn’t help but watch the way he moved, shirtless with his elbows on the table across from Harry. He watched the strong muscles of his arms and his chest and Harry couldn’t wait to have Louis all to himself after their concert later that night. Louis was the brightest light Harry had ever seen, warm with happiness and laughter, and when Louis caught him staring he bit at his lip just to tease him. 

Zayn won yet again and Liam threw his cards at the ceiling and let them rain painfully down on them, a card hitting Harry in the eye. He cried out in pain and Louis dove across the table to cover his face in kisses, easing away the pain in every way he knew how. 

“Get a room!” Zayn ordered, and Liam replied,

“You don’t really want them to do that, Zayn! You know we won’t be able to escape the sounds!”

“Oh, Lou!” Niall cried, taking hold of Zayn’s shoulders and miming humping him from behind. 

“Haz, don’t stop!” Zayn replied, and Louis laughed hard enough to fall out of his seat and go sprawling in the floor of the bus. Harry helped him up, choking with laughter of his own, and Niall had to put his head on the table and take deep breaths to calm down.

“What’s so funny?” Sophia called from the front of the bus, and Zayn called back,

“Nothing, just an orgy!” and Louis begged for mercy on the floor, clutching his stomach and gasping for air from laughing. Harry reached for him and he helped him stand, Louis dropping into his lap and wrapping his arms around Harry’s neck, and Niall wiped tears of mirth from his eyes and said,

“Jesus, I love you guys.”

“And we love you,” Louis said, his head falling onto Harry’s shoulder. But Harry was in serious pain, his laughter ripping at his throat, and he coughed before he could bite it down and all eyes turned to him. He coughed again, harder this time. It hurt and he slapped a hand over his mouth but it did nothing to slow the blood that filled his mouth and weighed down his tongue. 

“Haz?” Zayn asked, concern darkening his face. “You okay?” 

“Yeah,” Harry tried. But as he parted his lips blood spilled hot from him and Zayn’s jaw dropped hard enough to crack. 

“Haz!” he cried out, shock crossing his features, and he leapt from the table to grab a handful of paper towels from the counter. “Jesus, here!” He handed Harry the roll and Harry ripped off a wad, spitting blood into the pristine white towel. “Fucking hell, Haz, why are you bleeding?”

“Dunno,” Harry managed. But Louis knew the truth; Louis knew why he lied, and he rose up off Harry’s lap and said,

“I think he tore something.” He was calm, far calmer than Zayn, but his face was pale and slack as he looked away from Harry. Another cough wracked his body and with it came another mouthful of blood. It was coming too fast to mop up, drips hitting the table, and Niall and Liam and Zayn leapt up out of the way, all shouting at once.

“Soph!” Zayn cried, but Louis was gone and he was already in the front of the bus, whispering to Sophia with icy calmness in his face. 

“No,” Harry tried to protest, but Niall shoved a bowl into his hands and Harry couldn’t breathe around the blood in his mouth, all over his tongue and his throat and his teeth, and then Louis was back with his hands in Harry’s hair, murmuring in his ear that he was okay, he was okay; Jeff was turning off the next exit to take Harry to the emergency room. “No,” Harry moaned. He was okay, he was all right; the hospital was the place he only ended up when he was dying. He couldn’t end up there now; he was fine. But he couldn’t make the words come; Zayn went white at the sight of the next wave of blood dripping from Harry’s lips. 

“Christ,” Zayn moaned, and Niall had one hand over his mouth and Liam was long gone, pacing the back of the bus so he didn’t have to look, and Harry did not blame him one bit. He was vile and he was a mess and somehow he always ended up here. Maybe he was never going to be okay. And maybe that was how all of this was meant to go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhh, only one chapter left until the end of Book 1!!!! You can reach me at ourl0veisgod on tumblr with anything!


	13. Chapter 13

The ER nurse took one look at the blood dripping from Harry’s mouth and went nearly as white as The Troves. By the time Harry was sat down before a doctor Zayn looked like a ghost. The doctor did not protest as The Troves, Louis, Sophia and the roadies piled into the room with Harry. Pilot’s Poison, having pulled their van off the exit to follow The Troves, waited in the lobby while the doctor examined Harry’s throat with a flashlight. The bleeding had slowed but the thick taste of blood did not leave Harry’s mouth, his stomach turning from the amount he had swallowed. He was going to fucking throw up and he was going to do it soon but the doctor stuck a swab down his throat and apologized when he moaned in pain, his throat so raw he could barely inhale without crying out. 

“I’ll be right back,” the doctor said, and he handed Harry a white paper cup to spit blood in while they waited for him to come back. Louis had not taken his hands off Harry since the moment he sat down, both hands massaging at the back of his neck and his head. (Why was he like this; why did he torture Louis with nonsense like ill health and hemorrhaging?) 

“How are you feeling?” Niall asked, timid as he broke the silence, and Harry replied as best as he could through his tight throat. 

“I’m gonna barf,” he replied. 

“Great,” Niall said. 

“Do you need the garbage can, Haz?” Sophia asked, already going for the plastic can in the corner, but Harry shook his head. (He hated the fawning and he hated the worry and he wanted to get out of here and back on the road before they were late for the next show.) 

“I’m fine,” he said, but through the blood in his throat it came out thick and messy like he had a cold. 

“You don’t look fine,” Zayn scoffed. 

“Fuck off,” Harry grumbled. (They cared about him; they were here; they loved him. Why did he do everything in his power to push them away?) And then the doctor was back, a slip of paper in his hand, and he sat down in his stool before Harry and all eyes fell on him.

“So,” he said, and everybody in the room leaned forward at once. 

“What?” Harry slurred. 

“It looks like you really damaged your vocal cords, Harry,” the doctor said. “It looks like contact ulcers in your throat burst and that’s what caused the bleeding. However, I don’t know what caused the ulcers.”

“Ulcers?” Harry asked, drooling blood into the cup in his hand. “What does that mean?”

“Well,” the doctor said, so deadly serious as he spoke that Harry had to bow his head to look away. “The type of ulcers you have are typically caused by acid reflux or something of the sort. But I don’t have any history of that in your records that we pulled up…” Louis tightened his fingers on the back of Harry’s neck hard enough to make Harry wince. He knew why. Louis was right; he was always fucking right as he fought tooth and nail to protect Harry and to save him and to make him better before he could ruin himself. (But it was too late, wasn’t it? He had already done it.)

“No,” Harry said through a fresh tongue full of blood. 

“Well, I suppose it doesn’t matter what caused them now that we know they’re there. Treatment is easy enough as long as the bleeding stops; all you are required to do is go on antibiotics for two weeks to keep away the threat of infection and you have to go on vocal rest for at least six weeks.”

Nine bowed heads shot up at the doctor’s orders and he leaned back, confusion crossing his face. “What?” he asked.

“No,” Harry said, the first one to speak. It hurt, it fucking hurt, but he had to speak up. “No, that won’t work for me.”

“Haz…” Niall said, but whatever he was going to say got lost in the frantic protests by Zayn and Harry. 

“We’re in the middle of a goddamn tour,” Zayn told the bewildered doctor. “He needs to sing every goddamn _night_.” 

“I can’t do vocal rest; I don’t need it.” Every muscle in Harry’s body tensed as if he was ready to run, his muddled brain crying over and over _no, no, no, no, no_. He was the core of the band; he was the front man, and they needed him. He was fine and this was fine and he tried to rise out of his chair but Louis pressed down on the top of his head and Sophia’s hand landed soft on his shoulder to keep him down. 

“Haz…” she said, voice mournful. (If she was mournful Harry was despondent, agony flaring up in him that had nothing to do with his churning guts and burning throat.) 

“Harry,” the doctor said. “If you don’t be very careful with your voice for the next six to eight weeks, you could permanently damage it. Do you understand that?” It didn’t matter whether he understood or not; the goddamn doctor was the one who didn’t understand. He had no idea of the pressure and the screaming and the fans and the spotlights and the opening band waiting for him to share good news. He had no idea that he was Harry fucking Styles, a regular goddamn ticking time bomb, and he was going to explode. 

“Fuck,” Harry barked, and before he even saw her move Sophia had the garbage can under his chin just in time to catch the blood he threw up. He cried out in pain before he could help himself, claws slashing at his throat from the inside out, and it didn’t fucking matter. There was nothing he could do about it. He had survived worse than a goddamn sore throat and he could do it again; nothing was going to keep him from playing the sold out show tonight. If he had to sneak out pretending to take a piss he was going to get the hell out of the hospital before he was late. 

Sophia grimaced and she looked to the doctor and Harry appreciated what she did for him more than she would ever know but what she said next made him cry out again. 

“Vocal rest,” Sophia said to the doctor. “And antibiotics. Can you write that out for us, then? We have somewhere to be.” 

“Sophia!” Harry cried, ignoring the white hot burst of pain in his ruined throat, and the look Sophia shot him could melt steel.

“Shut up, Harry, do you not understand what vocal rest means?”

“Don’t yell at him!” Zayn cried, and Louis’s hands twisted tighter and tighter into Harry’s hair (maybe Louis saw Harry as a tether of his own) and Harry was in so much fucking pain he was starting to lose his goddamn vision at the edges and he was going to pass out on the floor if he didn’t move right this second. He stood and Louis released him and the doctor looked up at him and without waiting for anyone to catch up with him he walked away. 

(He was ragged; he was broken, and he was going to keep breaking the hearts of the people who loved him because he had no other choice.) 

The only thing he could think as he tried hopelessly to find the exit was that no matter what happened he was going to play the show. Nothing was going to stop him. He was born to be onstage and if that meant dying onstage, too…so be it. He walked down the halls, dizzy and lightheaded from blood loss, (how much blood could he lose and still be able to stand?) and he heard someone following him and he did not look back to see who it was. Harry could hardly see, never mind breathe, and each breath he took tore painfully up his throat and breathing through his nose did nothing to help; his goddamn sinuses were full of blood and he couldn’t fucking think. 

So he kept going. He could have been walking in circles, his sneakers hitting the tile floor, and it didn’t fucking matter. He had to get out. He would find the way. He just couldn’t stay here. The footsteps behind him were faster, running to catch up, and Harry’s head was fuzzy and his vision began to swim (was he going to pass out in the goddamn hall?). 

“Haz!” the person chasing him cried out, and it was Louis. It was Louis and he sounded wrecked, scared out of his mind, and it was Harry’s fault because he was a goddamn sinner and he couldn’t stop breaking people apart. “Haz!”

Harry’s shoulder hit the wall before he realized he was losing the strength in his legs, black stars dancing across his vision. He hit the floor on his hands and knees and he collapsed there, too tired to even raise his head as Louis hit the floor at his side, gasping for air and touching him everywhere he could reach. 

“Haz, Hazza, hey,” he said. “Hazza, hey.” Harry couldn’t move, he couldn’t breathe, and he panicked as Louis took him by the shoulders and rolled him over to face him; he couldn’t look at Louis, not now. He closed his eyes and Louis cradled Harry in his lap like a fucking baby, one arm around his shoulders and one hand stroking his cheek with careful fingers. 

“Haz,” Louis said again, and it was only then that Harry realized Louis was sobbing. 

(No, no, no, no, no, no, no.)

His eyes flew open and he looked up at Louis just in time for tears to splash on his cheeks from the tip of Louis’s nose and from his chin as he cried over him like he was a dead man. (But for the fire in his throat he felt like one.) 

“Fuck, Haz, why do you do this to yourself?” Louis asked him, and all at once hands were all over him. The rest of the band and Sophia and the roadies had caught up and there were unfamiliar voices and Harry was pathetic, lying on the floor in Louis’s arms like a rag doll, and he was going to get up and walk out of here or not walk out at all. 

“Lemme go,” Harry slurred, and the world went dark for a terrifying moment before he blinked and cleared his vision. “I have a fucking show to play.”

“Like hell you do!” Sophia cried out, but it was too late and Harry had to get out of here and no one was going to tell him he couldn’t go. 

“I’m fine!” Harry cried, Louis desperately wiping with his sleeve at the fresh blood Harry coughed up. He choked, still lying on his back, and Louis pressed one hand to his cheek to turn his head enough so he could spit blood on the pristine floor. (When had falling apart become normal? Since when was this just another day in paradise?) Harry sat up and Louis tensed but he didn’t push him back down. “Please,” Harry said. He looked up at Sophia, begging her with his eyes, and she looked away. “Sophia, I just want to go back to the…” He coughed and the group of people who stood watching him come apart leapt back all at once. He slapped a hand over his mouth and through his fingers he went on. “Let me go sleep in the bus until the show. I won’t say a word, not ever, every single day for two months if it’ll make you happy, but you gotta let me play the shows.”

“Haz, look at yourself!” Sophia snapped, and the world came crashing down around him. She was done. Not one of the people looking down at his were on his side anymore. He was on his own, and maybe that was how all of this was meant to go.

“I’m out of here,” he said, and he struggled to stand and Louis was good and he helped him to his feet, one strong arm holding him up by the waist. Harry leaned heavy on Louis and he tried to shake the stars from his eyes, the world becoming simple pain and the smell of cinnamon and sweat on Louis’s skin. He could do this. They just had to let him.

“Harry,” the doctor said, palms out like Harry was a madman he was afraid of, “I strongly suggest you spend the night here until you can calm down. In the morning we can discuss the vocal rest, okay? But please, don’t go running out of here because you’re scared.”

“I’m not scared of anything!” Harry shouted, and his mouth was full of the copper taste of hot, stinging blood and he spat in his hand and wiped it on his jeans and he looked around at the people by his side and not one of them had anything to say. “I’m out of here,” he reminded them, and he shoved off of Louis and without looking back he walked away. 

They followed him. In the end they always followed him. And that was okay. That was okay. That was okay.

 

Sophia left The Troves in their tour bus and took a cab to a local pharmacy, returning with the antibiotics the doctor prescribed Harry. By the time she entered the bus with the white paper bag in her hand Harry was dozing in the kitchenette, his head in his arms on the table. Louis sat at his side, stroking the back of his neck with shaky fingers, and when he jerked awake for the second time Louis murmured,

“Come on, sweetheart. Let’s go to bed.” He was gentle and he was good and the bus began to rock as Jeff pulled the tour bus out of the hospital parking lot and back onto the road towards the concert venue. 

Four hours and counting until The Troves were due onstage. 

Harry collapsed into the bed at the back of the bus, still in his fucking sneakers, and his throat was tight and his face was hot and he couldn’t keep his eyes open long enough to watch Louis slip under the covers beside him. Louis was warm and Harry pushed him away; he was burning up and Louis was on fire. Louis kept one hand on his shoulder for a long moment before rolling over and turning away. Harry deserved that. All he did was push and push and push and he was going to lose everything important to him if he didn’t stop. But pushing was all he knew. Pushing kept him safe because keeping people at a distance kept his heart intact.

But as Harry began to fall asleep in the darkness of the back of the bus, the engine purring beneath him, Louis said his name.

“Haz?” Louis asked. Harry did not reply. And when Louis thought he was asleep he broke Harry’s heart in two. He began to cry, so softly Harry could almost pretend it was just a dream, and Harry let him cry and he shouldn’t have but there was nothing he could do. He was meant to break him and to break him and the harder he tried to keep himself together the harder it seemed it was going to be. Louis cried with his back to Harry and he knew the sound well; Louis’s heart was as irreparable as Harry’s was. 

And he had to let him go. 

 

It was late and it was dark and Sophia shook Harry awake, whispering in his ear. “Hey, Haz,” she said. “You have to be on in half an hour.” She was going to let him and Harry was glad; she knew him better than almost anyone and she knew there was no backing out for him. He had no choice; he had already made it. He was a front man and he was made to be onstage and he was going to up there even if it killed him. 

(It was starting to look closer and closer to inevitable.)

Backstage Niall popped a cough drop in his mouth and it wasn’t like it helped but Harry thanked him just the same. Jeff shoved his earpiece in and Harry winced and Jeff apologized and every night was the same as the one before. Nothing ever changed. But Louis was there and Harry was tired, exhausted, and Louis stood on his tiptoes to kiss him on the cheek and Harry caught his wrist just in time to pull him back and say,

“I love you.” He loved him. He loved him more and more every goddamn second and it wasn’t fair at all. Louis was going to break and Harry was going to deserve it when he lost him but Harry was a sinking ship and he still held on to hope and he took Louis’s face in both hands and kissed him until shining tears welled up in his baby blues. 

“Harry, I…” Louis said, but Sophia pushed him and he had to go and he stumbled onstage and the crowd went fucking wild because nothing ever changed. They loved him more and more every goddamn second and it wasn’t fair at all. Harry was going to break and he was going to deserve it when he lost it but he was nothing if not a fighter and he was going to fight for his life up onstage. 

“Good evening Phoenix!” he roared, and it hurt and it hurt and it hurt but he had a job to do and he was going to do it. 

Even if it fucking killed him. 

 

After the show The Troves and the roadies and Pilot’s Poison piled into the tour bus with bottles and bottles of booze in the kitchenette. Niall and Liam and Zayn piled together on one side of the table and Harry and Louis and Michael sat across from them, talking far too loudly for the cramped space. Harry held a paper cup in both hands and everyone pretended not to see each time he brought it to his lips to spit out thick and clotted blood. He had survived the show but his throat was on fire; it was impossible to talk and if he tried it came out in a ragged whisper. And every time he tried Louis hushed him, anyway, and he gave up and let Louis squeeze his thigh under the table far too close to the zipper of his jeans. It felt good, too good to ask him to stop, and when Louis relaxed his hand Harry jiggled his knee until he squeezed again. 

Louis took shot after shot of whatever Michael pushed into his hand; Pilot’s Poison were far too young to be drinking like this but no one was going to protest. It was far too late to be awake and functioning but as Louis pounded whiskey Harry pounded the Red Bull Michael had brought in for Jagerbombs. Pink splotches of color decorated Louis’s cheeks as he drank and he began to slur but he was goddamn beautiful even as his tongue tripped over simple words. Harry could hear Luke and Eleanor laughing with Sophia and the roadies in the front of the bus and Harry was glad to hear Sophia laughing, too. She deserved the relaxation wherever she could get it. 

Harry wished he could give Louis the same peace. Even as he got drunker and louder Louis still glanced at Harry out of the corner of his eye every time he spat up blood. Louis was worried and Harry didn’t blame him; how much blood had he lost and how much more could he possibly lose? Sophia made Harry take the first of his pills and he swallowed it with an icy glass of water and she stroked his hair back from his forehead and told him she loved him.

It wasn’t fucking fair.

She told him he was burning up and he knew that but there was nothing he could do. He was sick, sick, sick and he deserved it and it was okay because it had to be. 

“How are you feeling?” Liam asked and Harry said he was all right because he had no choice. (He tried to, anyway; his voice came out a squeak and he shrugged instead of speaking.) 

“Another shot?” Michael asked Louis, and he nodded.

“Thank you,” he slurred. He tipped the shot glass to his lips and swallowed it down, too drunk to grimace at the burn anymore. “One more,” he said. Michael laughed and filled his glass and Louis gulped down shot number eleven. 

“Another?” Michael asked, but Harry put his hand over Louis’s glass and shook his head at Michael. “Come on, Haz, have some fun,” Michael said. He was young and he was an idiot and he had no idea how this life could consume him, burn him alive and swallow him whole. He didn’t know yet that alcohol could ruin a voice or that coke could burn a hole straight through the roof of his mouth. He didn’t know that drinking led to needing to drink and needing to drink led to losing control. 

“No,” Louis said, his hand in the seam of Harry’s pants. “It’s okay, I’m done.” 

“Aw, come on,” Michael cried, but Liam interjected with one hand on Michael’s arm. 

“Dude, I know you’re new to this,” he said, “but if Harry says no the answer is no.” Michael finally dropped the bottle in his hand back onto the counter with a shrug and wandered away towards the girls in the front of the bus. Harry opened his mouth to thank Liam but he raised one hand.

“Don’t talk, idiot,” he said affectionately. “I mean it.” And to Louis he said, “Take it easy, Lou. You’re going to hit a wall and it’s not going to be pretty.” 

“I’m fine,” Louis said. He was gorgeous and his lips were red and so were his cheeks and Harry had never seen anything so lovely as Louis when he was drunk. But drinking was an ugly game and all Harry wanted to do was get away. He had not been so tempted by alcohol for a long time. But there it was. He watched Louis smile slow, lazy and sleepy and graceless, and he felt a surge of jealousy at the escape drinking brought with it. He was an outsider now, watching his friends get drunker and drunker, and when he stood to leave no one tried to stop him. 

The stars lit up the night as he stepped off the bus, dropping the cup stained scarlet with blood on the kitchenette counter on his way out. Streetlights illuminated the sidewalk and he had no idea where he was going but he was sick, sick, sick and he had to get somewhere far away where no one knew him well enough to tell. Arizona was hot even in the night, heat from the sun keeping the sidewalk warm through the middle of the night. But the air felt cold on Harry’s burning skin (he seemed to always run a fever, sick and tired and worn out) and he shivered as goose bumps rose up on his arms and the back of his neck. 

And he was not alone for long. Louis fell into step at his side and he had not heard him coming and wasn’t sure if he would have tried to hide if he had. Louis did not say a word. He tripped over cracks in the sidewalk, his feet clumsy, and Harry did not speak either. They didn’t need to. They had a secret language all their own. Louis wound his arm through Harry’s and maybe Harry was the tether and he had everything all wrong. It was hard to tell and it made his head and his heart hurt to try. 

Together their sneakers slapped the sidewalk as the tour bus slipped away from them and with it all the noise. The night was silent and that was how Harry wanted it. Silence was easy. Silence was safe. And Louis leaned his head on Harry’s shoulder as they walked and he was warm and Harry was grateful for the heat. Harry always ran and Louis always followed. Maybe that was how things were supposed to be, but Harry had heard him crying in their bed and it didn’t seem right at all. 

After a long while Louis finally spoke. His voice alone was the only thing Harry didn’t mind breaking the silence. “I love you, Haz,” he said. It was something simple and something small but it was all that Harry had. If Louis loved him he had everything; he had the world. He smiled as best he could and Louis smiled back. “I love you so much it hurts.” And Harry knew exactly what he meant. He felt it, too, the pain and the guilt and the feeling that they were meant to be tied together, drifting apart and together again just because of the rope keeping them tethered. 

And Louis kept talking and he was so drunk he tripped over each and every word. He clutched Harry’s arm hard enough to hurt and that was okay. Harry loved the feeling of being the only thing tying Louis to the earth.

“I think I want to _marry you_ , Haz,” he said. “I want to _marry_ you and live in a _house_ with you and make you breakfast every morning and kiss you every night and I just want you to know that. I want to grow _old_ with you and I want you forever and ever.” He tilted his head back towards the night sky, the moon dancing white in his eyes. “I just thought you should know that. Because I don’t think that’s what we’re going to get. I don’t think you and I were meant to fall in love, baby Hazza bee. I don’t know. Maybe I’m too drunk to be proposing to you but maybe that’s what I’m doing anyway. I don’t know.”

(Louis was starlight and he had no idea; Harry tasted the tang of blood and he swallowed it down like the whiskey in Louis and maybe that was okay.)

“Maybe we were meant to have another life,” Louis said. “I don’t know. Maybe you and I are in love in another world, somewhere without speedballs and somewhere without ulcers and somewhere without lyrics and managers and hotel rooms. I don’t know what I’m trying to say.”

Harry had no idea, either. All he knew was that Louis had the sharp edges of tears in his voice and if he was going to cry Harry was going to fall apart. 

“I am so in love with you, Harry. God, I know it’s stupid because I know I’m young and I’m dumb and I haven’t known you for all that long, but what the fuck does that matter? Because I think…I know in another life we are in love and that’s why I found you here. I don’t know. I don’t believe in soul mates or love at first sight and I used to never believe in _the one_. But if it exists, you’re it. You’re fucking it. And I live every day terrified that I’m going to wake up next to a fucking ghost and you have no idea how hard it is.” 

(Just as hard as the fear of waking up to an empty bed, Harry imagined.)

But he couldn’t speak and when he opened his mouth to try anyway Louis hushed him.

“You don’t need to say anything,” Louis said. “I’m just telling you how I feel before I sober up and change my mind and lose my chance.” He exhaled and looked down at their sneakers on the pavement and Harry couldn’t breathe for the pain in his heart but he tried anyway. 

“I don’t want you to hurt anymore, Harry,” Louis said. “I want you to be happy. And sometimes when you’re sleeping I wonder if I should disappear. Because maybe then it’d be easier for you. I wonder and I wonder if I should let you go…let you die¸ because I don’t know what else I can do. I can fucking…I can hold your hair back for you and I can kiss you but I can’t make everything that hurts you go away. And I wish I could. I wish the simple fact that I love you could save you.”

“But it can’t,” Harry whispered. It hurt; it fucking hurt, and Louis nodded and the gesture hurt even worse. 

“I love you,” Louis said. “It’s not fucking fair that it’s not enough.” He stumbled on the sidewalk and Harry caught him in his arms and they stood like that for a long drawn out moment in which neither of them dared to breathe. And when Louis spoke again his voice cracked and shattered and broke. “I love you and I’m sorry that I love you and I’m sorry that I can’t be this…end all be all love of your damn life…thing. I just want to be the only one who gets you forever. I don’t even know what I’m saying anymore.” He bowed his head and Harry was sorry; he was so fucking sorry but it was too late and he should have given Louis up long ago but he was cruel and nothing could make him say goodbye now.

Harry took Louis’s face in his hands and Louis tried to look away through the haze of tears in his eyes but Harry wiped them away with his thumbs and Louis’s eyes the brilliant color of the sky turned up to meet Harry’s. 

“Lou,” Harry mouthed, tongue so heavy he could barely breathe.

“What?” Louis was in agony and there was nothing Harry could do but he felt every ounce of pain Louis did in every goddamn bone in his body. And nothing Harry did ever made sense and nothing he could say would ever come out right and it didn’t stop him from trying.

“Marry me, Lou,” he said, and Louis barked a sob that shattered the quiet of the night. He squeezed his eyes shut, his lips turning down as he fought uselessly against the tears choking him, and when he opened them again the despair in his face almost sent Harry to his knees. 

“Haz, stop,” he said. 

“Marry me,” he said again. (Maybe he was selfish and maybe he was mean but he loved Louis and what else really mattered?) 

“Haz…”

“Lou. Hey.” It hurt to talk and there was blood on his tongue and he swallowed it down and he nearly slipped to the pavement from the shaking of his knees but Louis cried so hard his whole body trembled and he needed Harry to take his turn being the fucking rope. “You and me,” he said. “Forever. Okay?”

Louis was drunk and Louis was graceless and he tried to bury his face in his hands but Harry caught his wrists and held on tight. 

“Marry me.” 

“Stop talking; you’re going to wreck your voice…”

“It’s already wrecked. It’s over. All of it; it’s fucking over.”

“What’s over?”

“The band. The tour. The music. All of this. It’s gone; it’s over. It’s dead. Why did we try for so fucking long?”

“Haz.” Louis was wide eyed and the tears on his cheeks gleamed in the moonlight and all around them the earth was sleeping. But they were awake and they were fading and Harry had to save the sinking ship that was Louis and Harry before it was too late. Before neither of them escaped with their hearts intact. Before they exploded and left no fucking survivors. 

“Marry me. Run away with me; I don’t care. This is over. It’s you, it’s all you, and it’s only ever going to be you.”

“Haz!” Louis cried and Louis wept and he couldn’t keep the tears from falling to the pavement any more than he could stop Harry from reaching for him no matter how far he stepped out of his reach. 

“I quit,” Harry said. “I fucking quit. I don’t care about the tour; I don’t want this anymore.” 

“Stop _talking_ …” 

“Maybe you’re right and maybe we weren’t meant to find each other in this fucking mess of a life. Maybe we were better off apart. But we found each other and there’s no going back. Marry me.”

“Is that an order?” Louis barked, anger flashing across his face so quickly Harry nearly missed it. “I’m not your fucking plaything, Haz! I’m not! I don’t know who you think you are, but do you really expect me to wait around forever for you to be ready for me?”

“I’m ready now!” Harry howled in reply. “Right now! I’m here, babe, and I’m not going anywhere!” He spread his arms wide and Louis had his hands balled into fists and this was falling apart faster than Harry could pick it up and he was going to lose it and he was going to lose Louis and he was going to deserve it when it killed him. 

“I can’t,” Louis said. “I can’t. Jesus, I can’t.” He turned away and he walked away and the world around Harry fell apart. And there it was. Goodbye. The end. Louis was the rope and he had cut the fucking line and Harry was going to drown. 

“Louis!” he cried, and Louis turned back to face him and it was a miracle; it was a blessing, and Harry took two steps towards Louis before his knees gave out and he hit the pavement on all fours. (He was a sinking ship and he was always meant to hit the bottom of the sea.) And Louis’s hands were all over him and Louis was so drunk he couldn’t focus his eyes on Harry for long enough to see that he was okay as he cradled him in his arms, hot teardrops splashing down on Harry’s face as Louis cried over him. 

“It’s okay,” Louis cooed, heat and fire and ice. “I love you, you’re okay.” And Harry was broken and Harry was always going to be that way but Louis loved him and he was sweet and he pressed kisses to Harry’s forehead. 

“In another life,” Louis said, his choked words coming out a whisper in Harry’s ear. “In another life, baby, I would marry you any damn day of the week.”

And maybe it meant nothing and maybe it meant goodbye and maybe it meant he was never going to leave but Harry didn’t have the strength anymore to ask the answer of him. Louis pressed his forehead to Harry’s and they closed their eyes together and after a long moment Louis kissed Harry so softly on the mouth that he wanted to cry. But he didn’t. Louis helped him stand and slowly they made their way together back to the tour bus. 

In bed their mouths met again and again, soft kisses turning into desperate ones. Louis whimpered his name with tear streaked cheeks as they made love and it didn’t matter that Harry was poison because Louis was the cure. And maybe theirs was a love story and maybe it wasn’t meant to have a happy ending but Louis tasted sweet and the glory of his love was all Harry could ever hope for. Maybe letting go was long overdue but as long as Louis smelled like (whiskey) cinnamon and sugar and sweat Harry was not going to do as he should. And Louis breathed his name over and over and it was morning by the time Harry curled one arm around Louis, their bodies perfect puzzle pieces, and dozed off with the only thing that mattered held tightly to his chest as Louis breathed. 

Maybe they weren’t meant to have a happy ending but happy moments were something simple that Harry could give Louis. He could give them and he could give them and maybe someday the moments would turn into days and weeks and years and they could have the life Louis wanted. Harry tried not to think about the future he deserved as sleep took him to the sound of Louis’s slow and steady heart. 

In the morning Louis had no memory of the night before, waking up and clutching at his head. Harry should have told him; it was wrong to keep the truth from him. But he was selfish and he could be cruel and nothing in the world could make Harry tell Louis that he had tried to say goodbye. The alcohol in his blood had given him the courage to admit that he was drowning in Harry, the tidal wave brought on by his sinking ship dragging him down with it. If Harry was a better man he would give Louis the world that he deserved. But Louis smiled at him and apologized for how drunk he had been and Harry kissed him on the mouth and told him it was okay; he was a gorgeous, pink faced drunk. 

Harry was always going to be the wrong man for Louis and he was always going to do everything in his power to keep him.

 

Phoenix turned to Salt Lake City and from there it was back to Denver. And every goddamn night was exactly the same as the one before. Harry hurled in the bathroom and Sophia begged him to take the night off (“Zayn can do the singing, you know he can!”) or at least drink hot tea before the show and he felt guilty for refusing but anything that touched his throat caught him on fire.

Denver turned to Austin and Austin turned to Dallas. It was warm, the slow freeze of winter nonexistent in the dry air of Texas, and Harry got such an awful nosebleed right before The Troves were to take the stage that Sophia had her phone in her hand and had dialed a nine and a one before Harry could get the phone away from her and assure her he was all right. He was fine. He felt good, he really did. All that held him back were the blood clots he coughed up and the lightheadedness that sent him sprawling to his knees often enough to make Sophia hide in the tour bus to cry. 

From Dallas they rode to Oklahoma and from there to South Dakota. November began to give way, December only days away instead of weeks, and every night was exactly the same as the one before. Harry finished taking his antibiotics and Sophia asked him to refill the prescription, his throat still raw and his voice still husky, but the pills turned his stomach and he refused. He was rotten to the fucking core, after all, and the more the people who loved him pushed the harder he pulled away. 

In Chicago Harry hung over the toilet in the concert hall, alone until the door cracked open behind him. He tried to tell Louis he was okay but it was Michael Clifford who crouched at his side after locking the bathroom door. 

“Harry,” he said. “Are you in pain?” If the sweat on his face and the blood on his lips were not enough to answer the question Harry weakly nodded. Michael stuck his hand in the pocket of his jeans and he said, “I have something for you.” He pressed a tiny plastic baggy into Harry’s open palm and Harry wiped at his mouth with his free hand as he turned the bag over and over.

“I can’t,” he said, trying to pass it back. “Not worth it.”

“Don’t you want to feel better?”

“Not like that.”

“I know you’ve had problems in the past,” Michael said. “But I’m sick of watching you suffer when this shit can help. You don’t have to be scared just because of the past.” 

“It’ll kill me,” Harry insisted. 

“It won’t.”

“Fuck off.” Harry closed his eyes but the tiny little pill in a baggy in his hand was far heavier than it should have been. “Oxy?” he asked.

“Yeah.”

“I can’t.” Harry tried to hand it back but Michael wouldn’t take it. “Michael, stop fucking with me.” He tried to speak with deadly calm but even Michael must have heard the tremor behind every word. 

“Fine.” Michael opened his hand and Harry dropped the baggy into it and watched it disappear. “I’m just trying to help. You know how it takes the pain away.”

“It takes _everything_ away.” 

“It helps me a lot to get up there.”

“I know the feeling. Believe me.” Harry wiped his mouth and used the toilet for balance to help him stand. Michael stood eye to eye with him and it made Harry angry to not be able to tower over the kid who had no idea what path he was walking down. Harry turned the sink on and bent at the waist to splash water on his face, Michael hovering behind him, and when he stood with icy water dripping from his chin Michael said, 

“You think you know everything, don’t you?”

“I know everything about this.” Harry patted the pocket Michael had tucked his favorite poison into and Michael took a step back, disgust marring his face. 

“Fuck off,” Michael said, and without another word Harry was alone again. (Michael had no idea how close he was to taking it and how close he was to losing everything.) Harry watched him go and he would have given anything to be in his fucking shoes. He was still young and he could walk away when he chose to. Harry had not had that luxury in a long, long time. 

The show had to go on as it always did and Harry took the stage. Louis watched him with his knuckles pressed to his lips and Harry held his microphone out into the crowd, letting them sing his songs to him. They fucking loved it. He used the momentary breaks to cough into his shoulder and hope that no one saw; he wore black to hide the bloodstain his mouth left there and he could feel it stick to his skin. They loved him. They would do anything for him. And he let his knees hit the stage and he heard Sophia step closer before he raised one hand behind him to tell her he was fine. He closed his eyes and Zayn began to play the next song, the one Harry knew he would never be able to sing with his throat in broken pieces. 

“Do me a favor,” he said to the crowd. They roared because just like his loyal friends watching backstage they would do anything for him. He was Harry fucking Styles and he had the world at his goddamn feet. “Why don’t you guys sing this one for me?” he asked, and the crowd went wild. “Thank you.” With one hand behind him on the stage and his knees on the ground he held his mic out to the crowd and as one they began to sing. He bowed his head, too exhausted to hold his chin up for another moment, and he listened to them sing his song far better than he ever could. 

Behind him his band played on. It was all that they could do. 

 

Detroit was next and Detroit was far too big for Harry, threatening to swallow him whole. As he waited backstage for Pilot’s Poison to finish their set (today he was not going to throw up; today he swallowed ibuprofen and cups and cups of herbal tea with honey that Sophia pressed into his hands) Sophia handed him a bottle of water with his name on it in marker. 

“Thank you,” he rasped, and for the tenth time today she pressed a hand to his forehead, concern lighting her eyes, and told him gently not to speak. “Do I have a fever?” he teased, but she frowned as he popped open his water bottle and drank it down in five long gulps. 

“Don’t play around,” she said. 

“You’re fine,” Niall said, clapping him on the back, but Harry was not an idiot. He knew that all over again he was sliding away. This time was different; this time he was sick and it was not entirely his fault and it was not fucking fair that he couldn’t get better. He wanted to go out there and be well and be able to sing his own fucking songs and he wanted the looks of pity to leave his bandmates’ faces and he wanted Louis to (marry) love him and not be afraid to stand by his side. 

“I love you,” Louis said, and Harry kissed him on the forehead and paused to marvel at the colors of his cheeks and lips and eyes.

“I love you, too,” he said. 

“Love you too!” Niall laughed, diving close to Harry to smack a kiss on his face before heading towards the stage as Jeff and Nick and Eleanor and the opening band’s sole roadie finished taking Pilot’s Poison things offstage. Zayn grabbed Harry by his shoulders and kissed him, too, laughing so hard there were tears in his eyes, and Liam took one look at him and said, 

“I love you, too. But I’m going to pass on that.” He mussed Harry’s hair and left him and Louis and Sophia backstage, Harry rubbing spit off his face from his crazy, stupid bandmates who should have left him long ago when they still had the chance. 

“You’re a lucky man, Harry Styles,” Sophia said, and she had tears in her eyes not brought on by laughter and she took him by the cheeks and kissed his forehead right between his eyes. “And I love you, too.” Harry was lightheaded and sleepy and he smiled at Sophia as she backed off only to step forward again and brush pink lipstick from his face with her thumb. “It’s almost your turn to go on.” She walked away and Louis and Harry were alone. 

“The world bows to you,” Louis said. 

“It shouldn’t.” Harry could barely see, the edges of his vision fuzzy, and it could have been wishful thinking and he could have been imagining it but it seemed the pain in his throat was far away, contained by tea and honey and painkillers. (He could sew the loose edges of him again and again but eventually the illness inside him would come spilling out.)

“You’re…” Louis said, but he closed his mouth and trapped his lip between his teeth.

“A wreck?”

“No.”

“A goner?”

“ _No_.”

“Then what am I?”

“You’re the world. You’re…mine. You’re my fucking everything, Harry Styles, and don’t you ever forget it.” He threw his arms around Harry and they stumbled backstage, a tangle of limbs and heat. Harry was dizzy and when Louis released him he nearly hit the floor but he was okay and he was steady and everything was going to be all right because Louis stood at his side. 

“You’re mine,” Harry replied. He kissed Louis sweetly, Louis’s lips hungry and warm, and when they pulled apart Louis gifted him the ghost of a smile. 

“Kick ass,” Louis ordered, and Harry intended to obey. (Harry couldn’t survive on love and Louis knew it and Harry knew it but it wouldn’t stop him from trying, from letting love keep him afloat.) But his throat was closing up and there was no reason for it but Harry felt the first twinge of panic as the world went dark around the edges the closer he stepped to the stage. 

Something was wrong. 

Louis was far away as his hands landed on Harry’s shoulders and he turned him back around. “Are you okay?” Louis asked, and more than anything he wanted to nod. Pilot’s Poison walked by, Luke Hemmings a blur out of the corner of Harry’s eye, and Louis called Sophia’s name and she came running.

“What?” she asked, Louis’s face disappearing and Sophia taking his place before Harry. “Harry?” she asked, her eyes impossibly wide. 

Something was very wrong. Harry couldn’t make his mouth obey him and he couldn’t breathe and Michael stood at Sophia’s side and he stared at Harry like he had any goddamn right. His face was pale and he opened and closed his mouth like a fucking fish and Harry didn’t realize Sophia was crying out his name until she slapped him, the pain of her open palm on his face hardly registering in Harry’s tired brain. 

“He’s _high_ ,” Sophia said, horror crossing her face, and that was not right. No, no, no, Harry had refused pills from Michael and he had refused alcohol again and again and Louis said from far, far away,

“No, I’ve been with him all day, he didn’t take anything!” 

Sophia shook him and it hurt and his head lolled and she asked him, “Harry, what the hell did you take?!” And his knees gave way and he hit the floor and it should have hurt but it didn’t and Sophia followed him down, her black tights getting dirty backstage, and Louis was at his back with both hands on his neck and Sophia was asking too much of Harry when she asked him again and again to tell her what the hell it was he took and what the hell he was thinking. 

(What was he thinking? His head was fuzzy, static, and he had no idea.) 

“Harry, talk to me!” Sophia cried. But he couldn’t; he couldn’t. And then Michael spoke and his voice was so soft Harry didn’t hear what he said. But Sophia jerked her head up, whirling on her knees to look up at him, and without her support Harry tilted forward and Louis caught him around the chest from behind and pulled him close. 

“What did you say?” Sophia cried, and Zayn threw Michael against the wall and Harry’s world narrowed to all he could see without turning his head; he was tired and he wanted to sleep and he had to get onstage where the crowd waited for him but something was wrong and he had no idea how to fix it. 

“I just wanted to help!” Michael cried, and he struggled against Zayn’s strong arm that kept him tethered to the wall by his throat. 

“What did you give him?!” Zayn barked. 

“I thought it would help!” Michael squeaked when Zayn shoved him higher up the wall and he shouted, “I don’t know! Fuck, I don’t know!” And Louis’s hands were all over Harry and he couldn’t move and he closed his eyes and Zayn hit Michael and Sophia screamed his name. 

“What the fuck did you give him?!” Zayn shouted. 

“Oxy!” Michael cried. “And a…” He choked around Zayn’s arm pinning him to the wall and Zayn backed off enough to let him speak and he said, “And some muscle relaxants. Okay? Fuck, I thought it would…” Harry opened his eyes in time to see Zayn punch Michael right between the eyes, his nose erupting in a spray of blood, and he hit the floor and Zayn landed on top of him (Harry knew the position well, Zayn landing punches on him, and he was too tired to move and too tired to breathe and Louis’s hands pressed over his heart and he leaned into the gentle touch). 

“Zayn get off of him!” Sophia cried, but Harry knew as well as anyone backstage that Zayn was stubborn and Zayn was loyal to a fault just like the rest of them and he was not going to stop until he was dragged off kicking and screaming. 

“You pathetic fucking excuse for a human being!” Zayn cried. “What were you fucking thinking?” Michael was limp but Zayn hit him again and Jeff and Nick and Liam grabbed for him, Jeff and Nick taking hold of his arms and Liam grabbing him by the middle. They hauled Zayn off Michael and his bandmates rushed to his side, helping him sit up and spit blood down his shirt. 

“I’m going to fucking kill you!” Zayn warned, and he lunged but with three men on him he couldn’t fight back. 

“Zayn!” Sophia shouted. “Zayn, calm down!”

When Zayn turned towards Sophia he had tears on his bright red cheeks. “He could have killed him, Soph!”

“I know, but killing _him_ isn’t going to make it go away!”

“We have to get Haz to the hospital,” Niall said, the quiet voice of reason, and Harry wanted to protest but he was tired and he was losing his grip on the world around him as everything began to fall away. 

“You’re right, you’re right.” Sophia was frantic and she dropped her phone when she pulled it from her pocket, the screen shattering on the floor backstage. The crowd was waiting and the music the venue played over the loudspeakers was the only thing keeping them from hearing every scream coming from behind the curtains. Niall pulled his phone from his pocket and he called for an ambulance and Pilot’s Poison dragged their guitarist out of the building, his body limp between the members too young for any of this, and Harry watched them go and then Sophia’s face swam before him again and she spoke to him but he couldn’t quite hear her. 

Louis’s hands were too tight on his chest and his breath hitched in his throat but at least he was not in pain anymore. The fire in his throat was just a memory and Michael had fucking drugged him, slipping something into the water bottle with his name on it, but what did it really matter? Maybe Michael knew he was going to go back to it in the end. He was just speeding the process along. 

“Harry, can you hear me?”

“Is he awake?” Louis asked, fingers clutching the front of his shirt.

“I don’t know. Haz, hey, stay awake, please.” Sophia was trying to be gentle and trying to be calm and Harry understood when she couldn’t. She was scared. So was Harry. That was okay. Harry was loved and Harry was warm and what did it really matter, anyway, if the ambulance did not arrive in time to save him? That was okay. Harry was loved and Harry was safe and he wanted to smile at Sophia and he wanted to thank her and kiss her and tell her he felt fine; he wasn’t in pain anymore. He wasn’t broken anymore. Pain was a constant in this life, coming from every side and leeching the life from him. But it was gone now. All of it. He felt good; he felt free. 

The weight of the world lifted from him and he managed a smile that made Sophia tighten her hold on his shoulders and bow her head.

“Soph, is he okay?” Louis asked. Harry wanted to tell Louis he loved him; he wanted to buy him a ring and kiss him and marry him and grow old with him because maybe that was what they deserved.

But it was never what they were going to get. 

Strong hands pried Harry from Louis’s arms and from Sophia’s searching eyes and they followed him; they would follow him to the end of the earth. That was okay. Harry closed his eyes and someone asked him not to but he was so tired and he wanted to obey but once they were closed they were not going to open again. Someone clutched his hand and he wanted to squeeze back but he fucking couldn’t. 

And then he was inside a roaring ambulance and the band could not follow him anymore. All he could do was wait to fade away and hope they would be there waiting when he came back to life. It was hard to breathe; he couldn’t find his goddamn lungs, and somebody slipped an oxygen mask over his face and it didn’t make it any easier. He was so tired. He was done. There was no reason for him to stay awake when for the first time in weeks the pain wracking his body was gone. He could rest. He could sleep. And what did it matter, anyway, if Michael had made a mistake and given him too much in his attempt to make it all go away? He could rest. He could sleep. 

But the siren wailed and there were rushed hands all over him and he was awake and he was alive and he wasn’t going anywhere. He could not hear what the people all around him said and he supposed it didn’t matter. For what felt like the hundredth time he lay there helpless as someone rushed to save his life. 

They should have let him go. 

They should have let him go.

 

He was wheeled from a stretcher to a white, white room and he opened his eyes and kept them open until tears streamed down his cheeks because he was not going to take dying lying down. He was hooked to familiar beeping and buzzing machines and oxygen was fast tracked to his fuzzy brain to keep him from sinking into the oblivion that hung over him like a cloud. 

No matter where he went and who he was and what he did he always ended up back here.

He couldn’t run from fate, it seemed, and his fate was dying at twenty-fucking-four without enough years under his belt to live without fear and it wasn’t fucking fair. For the first time in a long time he wanted to cling to life and claw his way back because maybe he deserved it. Maybe he deserved a long life and maybe he was going to take it whether he was meant to or not. The decision was not an easy one to make but Harry was stubborn and once he made up his mind nothing would ever change it. 

Later, long after the nurses and the doctors eased away from him and left him to rest strapped to a needle in the back of his hand and a tube pumping oxygen up his nose, his door cracked open and he knew who it was without looking. Louis pulled up a chair and he sat down hard at Harry’s side. After a long moment Louis brushed gentle fingers at Harry’s forehead and pushed his hair back (Harry still felt nothing and his touch was almost so gentle Harry missed it). 

“I’m sorry,” Louis said, and Harry had no idea what he was sorry for but he buried his head in his arms at Harry’s side and Harry feigned sleep because Louis spilled his guts out and Harry was selfish and he did not want Louis to hide away a single word. 

“Don’t you fucking dare leave me,” Louis breathed into Harry’s bed. “Don’t you fucking dare.” Was that a possibility? Harry felt alive and he didn’t want to die and maybe Louis knew something he didn’t. But then he spoke again and it took all Harry had to keep from reaching out to Louis as he began to cry. 

“If you wake up and you push me away…” Louis choked on his words and Harry understood. (He was mean and he was scared and Louis knew him better than anyone.) “Don’t you push me anymore, Haz. I can’t live without you and I don’t know how many more ways I can say it.”

He was ragged and he was broken and it was Harry’s fault. It was always Harry’s fault. 

“I’m going to stay with you until the end of time because I fucking love you. I love you and I’m not ever going to let you forget it. So don’t you dare wake up and think you’re doing the right thing by shoving me away. You’re a fucking idiot, baby, and I’m not going anywhere.” He cried and he cried and there was nothing Harry could do. Louis knew him well and he knew Harry was scared. Harry was selfish. And Harry was cruel. And he was going to break Louis’s heart and he was going to give him no choice. He was going to let him go. 

He should have let him go a long time ago.

He should have let him go a long time ago.

END OF BOOK ONE

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is it; the end of Book 1. 
> 
> I hope you all enjoyed the first half of my first ever fic; the feedback means the world.
> 
> I hope to be back with new updates within one to two weeks. 
> 
> Thank you, thank you, thank you for reading!
> 
> (OH and I am going to be completely honest; the second half is seriously, dreadfully fluffy. So much fluff. Trust me. Everything's gonna be okay.)
> 
> And as always, you can reach me (to harass me into updating or whatever you need) on tumblr at ourl0veisgod 
> 
> :)


	14. Chapter 14

BOOK TWO 

There was nothing easy about letting go. Harry Styles was a lot of things. But so was the love of his life. Louis had begged Harry not to let him go. Louis had pleaded at the side of his bed with his hands curled into Harry’s sheets and he had told Harry he would not condone being shoved away. And Harry could honor that. Couldn’t he? If Louis had asked it of him Harry would have changed the tides of the sea. So what was a little selfishness to him, in the grand scheme of a wasted life? He could give Louis what he wanted. He could. He could. 

Because at the end of the day he and Louis were one in the same, two broken boys who could not make up their minds. Louis was a runner, making promises he could not keep, and Harry was a dead man walking, afraid of loss and afraid of admitting defeat. What did it matter to the sky and to the stars, anyway, if they held on for just a little longer?

Louis was beautiful as he slept curled up in the lone plastic chair in Harry’s hospital room and Harry slept, dreamless, through an entire day and a half. The Troves missed both shows they were to play in Detroit and Sophia assured Harry the shows would be rescheduled and no one was angry with him. She was good and she had cited the flu and she made sure no one knew about the fight that had unfolded backstage. 

“They’re gone,” she said of Pilot’s Poison when Harry asked, anger marring her pretty face. “Zayn did so much damage to that little bastard’s face that he threatened to sue. Until we gently reminded him what he did to you. They’re gone, in any case, and I don’t want you to think about them ever again. They’re finished. Gone. I’m going to get them blacklisted from every venue in the damn country, Harry, and they are going to pay for what he did.” 

Harry was thankful but he told her, “Maybe he really thought he was trying to help,” and Sophia hushed him and told him he was crazy. Maybe he was (he was not going to pretend the euphoria of forgetting his pain was not the biggest relief he had felt in weeks) but he shook his head and told her he was not. 

“When can I get out of here?” he asked her, the tube taped to his nose tickling him when he spoke. 

“Tomorrow,” she told him. 

“Sophia,” he asked, and she looked up at him with her lip between her teeth. “Was I close at all to dying?”

She looked away.

“Was I?”

“I don’t know,” she said softly, like she knew the truth and was too scared to say it. She looked back up at him and pressed her fingers to the plastic tubing on his face and said, “But you’re all right now, honey. That’s all that matters.”

“I guess you’re right.” He said it like he actually believed it, that he did not wonder how close he was to losing his damn life for the second time. 

“You made it,” she said, for herself if not for Harry.

“I did.” He paused. “Again.” And what did it matter, anyway, Harry stumbling and falling apart again? In the grand scheme of a wasted life another fall meant nothing at all. 

“You’re invincible, Harry Styles.” She pinched his cheek and she leaned in to touch her forehead to his in a moment of helplessness. “I’m so sorry this happened to you,” she whispered. “I thought I was doing good by hiring an opener. I thought sharing the stage would make it so you weren’t so scared all the time. I was wrong. I shouldn’t have trusted them and I shouldn’t have let them in. Bringing in someone new nearly fucking killed you and I can’t even imagine…” She leaned back and Harry looked at her and agony burned bright on her face. “What would I have done if he had killed you, Haz? It would have been my fault.”

“Soph, no…” Nothing was her fault, not any of this. But she shook her head and she blamed herself and nothing Harry could say would change that. 

“After this tour,” she said, “I want you to take a long break and think about if this is the life you really want.”

“Soph…” (He was born to perform; he couldn’t quit now.)

“I want you to live in a quiet place somewhere far away and I want you to be safe and alone where none of this can touch you. More than anyone I know, Harry, you deserve some peace.” She squeezed his hand and Louis’s ring on his finger pinched and reminded him he was very much alive. Sophia left him alone and he tried to sleep but exhaustion was far away now and he was alone with the pain in his throat and in his chest. Louis slept quietly in the corner and Harry wanted desperately to hear his voice but Sophia was wrong about one thing. Louis was the only one who deserved peace. Louis deserved safety and quiet and someone who could love him with all that he deserved. Someone who could give Louis every piece of them and hold nothing back.

And Harry was never going to be able to give him that. 

 

Harry was released from the hospital and he climbed back on the tour bus and was bombarded with too many pairs of arms to count as his band and the roadies celebrated his return.

“I’m so sorry,” Zayn breathed as he dragged Harry to his chest. Harry had no idea what to say; Zayn had defended him time and time again and he never got anything in return. He had protected Harry with everything he had and there was nothing Harry could say that would be good enough. So he hugged Zayn back and he held on as tight as he could and he said the only thing that mattered. 

“I love you, Zayn.” And Zayn wiped tears from his eyes and he punched Harry on the shoulder and told him to stop being mushy and they all sat together again in the kitchenette as Jeff pointed to tour bus towards Ohio. 

“I posted online that we owe Detroit big time,” Liam said, tilting the screen of his phone to show Harry. “The fans are okay. They understand how hard life on the road is on you.” He shrugged and put away his phone and Harry’s days in the hospital had done him more good than he wanted to let on. He didn’t feel blood in the back of his throat anymore, the days off easing some of the never ending pain, and he could speak without wanting to cry from the sharp bites of agony that gripped him the week before. 

Sophia told him he looked good and he thanked her even though he knew the truth; he had color in his face but he still looked haggard and tired and far too thin, the weight from his weeks in Manhattan coming off faster than he had gained it. But that was okay. He felt good. He felt all right. And they had a show tonight and a show the night after and then they had an entire week off to spend in Louisiana before making the trek through the south and then heading back up north in time to be home for Christmas. 

Already Sophia was asking The Troves where they intended to spend the holidays. They had come together long ago without much in the way of family; Zayn had family far away who he never really yearned to see and Niall had his parents but had not spoken to them in four years (they did not approve of the life Niall led and he was happier keeping them out of the picture than letting them in to tear him down). Liam had his parents and Harry had nothing, his own parents divorced and his family full of people who may as well have been strangers, all of them spread out and far away with new families and no idea of the life Harry lived except for what they probably saw on TV. 

That was okay. Harry had Louis and he was all that Harry needed. 

“What do you think about going back to Manhattan for Christmas?” Louis asked, playing with the curls at the back of Harry’s head and tugging his head back just enough to hurt. 

“Sounds good to me,” Harry said. (With dry eyes he couldn’t force himself to do the inevitable; he could hold on to Louis forever if Louis would have him.) He had obeyed the request Louis did not think he heard; he was not going to push him away. Because he was cruel and he was a self-important son of a bitch and he was not going to let go of Louis without fighting for him first. 

(Maybe that was wrong but maybe this was it and maybe he was going to be good and maybe he could be the safety Louis deserved.)

It seemed impossible but Harry felt better than he thought he was ever going to feel again and maybe nearly letting death take him again was what he needed to come alive. (He was stupid; he was selfish and he couldn’t make up his mind.) 

In Cleveland Harry sang his heart out, his throat dry and his tongue heavy, but he sang as best he could and he managed and he let the crowd sing one song to him, his knees on the stage, because they would do anything for him and they wanted to give him one song, three minutes of rest. 

“Thank you, we love you, goodnight!” he cried for the thousandth time in his life, and he signed autographs outside and Louis held his right hand while he signed awkwardly with his left and a girl asked him to write a lyric on her arm for her to get it inked over at a tattoo shop down the block. 

“Are you sure?” Harry asked with the marker in his hand poised over her forearm.

“I’m sure.” Harry shrugged and he penned his own words on her skin, careful to make it at least legible enough to ink over, and she pulled back and looked at the lyrics and broke into a grin. “Thank you so much!” she cried, and Harry pulled her into a one armed hug and reminded her to post a picture online when it was done. 

And she nodded and she walked away and Louis’s hand was hot in Harry’s and Harry turned to him and said, “Let’s go.”

“Where?”

“To get tattoos.”

“What?”

“Matching tattoos. You and me. What do you say?”

“I say you’re a mad man,” Louis laughed, but Harry dragged him down the street, the heavy anchor to Louis’s rope, and Louis tripped over his own feet but he followed Harry because that was what he always did. “Harry, no!” Louis laughed. But he was happy for the moment and he was at ease and what more could Harry give? Harry and Louis burst through the door of the tattoo shop, the girl with lyrics on her arm sitting in waiting, and Harry rang the bell on the black desk in the front of the shop and Louis stopped him, laughing hard enough to shake his shoulders, when he tried to ring it again.

“Be right with you!” a voice called from the back of the parlor, and Louis dragged Harry back to the waiting area to sit on the black leather couch beside the Troves fan.

“What are you guys getting?” she asked, and Harry shrugged.

“No idea.” She looked at him like he was the sun and he wanted to warn her that he was not, he was poison, but her name was called and with one long look back at him she stepped into the parlor under the arm of a girl covered from her neck down in gorgeous neon ink. A man stepped out from the back of the parlor, peeling latex gloves off and tossing them inside out into a garbage can by the front desk, and he came at Harry and Louis with his hand outstretched.

“What can I do for you?” he asked, and Harry stood and so did Louis and the man had strong calloused hands that enveloped Harry’s as they met in the middle of the room. 

“He’s the rope,” Harry said, “and I’m the anchor. What can you do for us?” The man smiled, clapping his hands, and he said,

“Anything you’d like.” He led them through the swinging door separating the waiting room from the tattoo parlor and ten minutes later Harry and Louis sat side by side in plastic coated black chairs with tattoo artists leaning over their arms. On the outside of one bare wrist Harry was getting a tattoo in black ink of an anchor, a totem for his best boy. And at his side Louis winced as the girl inking him painted a rope, tied in the shape of a frayed infinity sign, just below the old image of a bird on his skin. Louis grinned like a mad man at Harry and Harry smiled back. It hurt, getting inked, but it was a pain he loved and a pain that made him feel very much alive. This was forever. This was a promise. (Even if he was going to lose Louis in the end they were always going to be tethered like a ship to a dock, tied together by ink if nothing else.) 

And what was a promise Louis could not keep, anyway, in the grand scheme of a broken heart? Harry loved him, he loved him, and Harry was never good at looking to the future anyway.

The girl tattooing Louis slapped plastic wrap and tape around his fresh ink and the man working on Harry’s followed suit soon after. Louis stood at Harry’s side and together they admired the ink in the floor length mirror, twisting their arms to get the best look. 

“You two look good together,” Louis’s tattoo artist smiled.

“Thank you,” Harry said. “We’re soul mates.” She laughed and Harry handed her the cash Sophia had stuffed into his wallet, waiting for her to count it out before waving at the man who gave him his tattoo and leading Louis out into the night. The girl who had gotten Harry’s lyrics written in blue on the inside of her wrist stood waiting for them, smoking with her back to the building. 

“Can I see yours?” she asked. It was frigid in Ohio and Harry was not used to it, looking forward to the relative warmth of the south, but he rolled up his sleeve and Louis did the same and the girl beamed at the two of them as she looked. “Cool,” she said, dropping her cigarette butt and stomping it out. “But not as cool as mine.” She showed Harry her tattoo and she glowed as Harry told her,

“It’s beautiful.”

“Well they’re your words,” she said. Harry bummed a cigarette and she held her lighter against the cold air to Harry’s lips. 

“Thanks,” he said, blowing out smoke to the night sky. He was a dragon, he was a ghost, and with Louis at his side he was nothing more than fine, fine, fine. 

“No problem,” she said, and Harry took the hand of the great love of his life and together they walked down the sidewalk back towards the tour bus. Harry passed the cigarette to Louis and he held it between his lips, inhaling and passing it back to Harry to exhale. 

“I love you,” Harry said. 

“I love you, too.”

“Let’s get married,” Harry said, and Louis plucked the cigarette from Harry’s fingers as a smirk Harry knew all too well passed his lips. 

“When?” Louis asked. 

“Christmas.”

“Okay.” Harry took the cigarette back and held the slowly shrinking thing to Louis’s lips and then he took it for himself as Louis released a plume of smoke to the stars. 

“I mean it,” Harry told him. 

“You mean everything you say, Harry Styles, and I don’t know why it doesn’t scare me.” Somehow Harry knew exactly what Louis meant. They reached the tour bus, the curtains drawn so they couldn’t see inside, and Harry held the door open for Louis and together they stepped inside. 

“Welcome home!” Zayn crowed. He sat shirtless in the kitchenette, surrounded by the rest of the band, and Sophia pulled a steaming mug from the microwave and picked up a bottle of honey from the counter to squeeze into the cup. 

“Here,” she said. She passed the tea to Harry and he took it, Zayn standing and taking hold of Louis’s arm to examine his brand new ink. 

“Wow,” Zayn said as Harry twisted his arm to show him ink of his own. “Anchor and the rope, huh?” 

“Yeah,” Harry shrugged, smiling up at Zayn around the mug at his lips. 

“Very cool,” Zayn said, and he made room at the table for Harry to sit at his side. Harry pulled Louis into his lap and Louis wrapped both arms around his neck and Harry nursed his hot tea in both hands. 

This was okay. This was good. Harry was okay. Harry was fine. 

“Only one more show until our next break,” Niall smiled, yawning wide enough for Harry to see all the way to the back of his throat.

“Thank God,” Zayn replied. They were tired and Harry was, too, and an entire week of rest sounded like the best thing they could have ever hoped for. 

“I can’t wait to sleep for an entire week,” Niall said. Louis dove his hands into Harry’s hair and he leaned into the touch and said,

“Tell me about it.”

“Forget a week, Haz, you look like you could do with a month,” Niall yawned. “No offense.”

“None taken.” Louis laughed, burying his face in the crook of Harry’s neck, and the roller coaster of this life had driven Harry up high again, rising to the top, and it was wild and it was messy and he was broken and couldn’t help but wonder when it would send him falling down again to hang upside down and stay there. 

What was a pressure headache in the grand scheme of a punctured heart, anyway?

“All right,” he said to ease the nagging pain in the back of his head, “Lou and I won’t leave bed for a month if it’ll make you happy.” The boys roared with laughter, Niall dropping his head in his hands as his shoulders heaved from pretending to throw up, and Louis kissed Harry’s cheek and it was the sweetest kiss Harry had ever received. (Louis was sweet to the goddamn core and every moment was only sweeter.) 

“Don’t be gross,” Zayn ordered, but his smile was genuine and Harry felt warm all over. Later he and Louis collapsed in a tangle of limbs into bed and he tasted as sweet as he always did and his hands were warm as they always were. His fingers were gentle but his mouth was rough and Louis kissed him and he kissed him and he kissed him and their T-shirts hit the floor and after that their jeans. 

“Tell me you love me,” Louis whispered, pinning Harry to the bed by his hands and his knees. 

“I love you.”

“Tell me forever.”

“Forever,” Harry agreed. (Anything for him; anything for Louis; anything he wanted and more was his because Harry loved him.) Harry kissed Louis as hard as he could and when their mouths broke apart Louis kissed down Harry’s chest, his scruffy face tickling his skin and making him squirm.

“Ask me,” Louis said, his tongue in the hair above Harry’s underwear. 

“Ask you what?” 

“Ask me to marry you,” Louis breathed into his skin. He slipped his hand into Harry’s underwear and it was all he could do to keep from moaning loud enough for everyone on the damn bus to hear.

“Louis,” Harry purred, his hands fisting Louis’s hair. “Louis,” he cried. “Marry me, Lou, please, God. Marry me.” And Louis looked up at him and he took Harry into his mouth, his lips so soft it should have been a sin, but not before he grinned and told him,

“I would love to marry you.” (And Harry should tell him he already proposed, drunk and breaking back in Phoenix, but Harry was rotten and he was going to take the secret to the grave.) And Harry took hold of Louis anywhere he could and he bucked his hips and Louis was happy to swallow him down. It was easy to say, “I love you,” over and over and over and come apart beneath Louis but it was hard to hide the tears that shocked Harry by spilling from his eyes down his cheeks and to his ears. 

“Why are you crying, baby?” Louis asked, and Harry had no answer. “Are you crying because you’re scared?”

He was always scared and that was a fact, something heavy and something dark he would always have to carry with him, and he nodded and Louis cooed his name and he kissed him and he kissed him and he told him everything was going to be okay. 

“Don’t cry,” Louis murmured as he curled up against Harry’s chest and tugged gently at the hair on his stomach. 

“I don’t cry,” Harry replied, teasing Louis and hoping he would laugh. And when he did it was the sweetest sound Harry had ever heard. (How was it that Harry kept trying to let go and Louis never stopped trying to stand steady at his side?) 

“You’re going to be okay now,” Louis said, and Harry took it as an order.

“I am.” 

“The worst is over. You know that, don’t you? You’re not going to slip away again.”

“You’re not going to let me?”

“Never.” And Harry didn’t care if Louis made promises he could not keep; Harry was tired of fearing the future and fearing the next day. He could take each moment one moment at a time because the future was fuzzy and dark and it was not something Harry would ever be ready for. But he was ready for Louis and he was ready for forever and if Louis was going to dance his fingers down Harry’s chest and press kisses to the hollow of his throat Harry was going to let him.

He was stupid that way. But Louis wanted him, at this moment, at least, and it had to mean something that he was still at Harry’s side. He could take it day by day. Because another night fearing the morning was going to be the death of him. (How many deaths did one man get, anyway?)

The night was long and Louis did not sleep, his hair tickling Harry’s chin and his fingers warm and gentle on his chest and face and thighs. Louis never tired of exploring him and for that Harry was grateful, the caress of Louis’s fingers his lullaby as he drifted off to sleep.

 

Louisiana was bright and New Orleans was alive, the week of freedom exhilarating as the tour bus creaked to a stop in the Park and Ride that would be the temporary home of The Troves for the week. It was pouring rain as they hopped out of the bus to stretch in the barren parking lot, the air thick and warm. Harry stretched his arms out and tilted his face to the sky, raindrops splashing cool on his face and making him feel (very much) alive. 

“Harry, get back in here before you get sick!” Sophia ordered him, but Louis joined him in the open air and Sophia gave up as the rest of The Troves turned their faces to the sky. “Idiots!” she scolded, but she didn’t mean that. She was good and she only wanted what was best for them. Harry understood. But the rain was heaven on his face, landing cold on his arms and rolling in a wave down the back of his neck. He glanced at Louis and he had his eyes closed against the rain and the water matted his hair to his forehead and he looked happier than Harry had been able to make him in weeks. 

“Lou,” Harry said, and Louis opened his eyes and turned to look at Harry. 

“What?” 

“Come here.” And Louis was good and Louis obeyed and Harry pulled him into his arms and rain poured down on them as Harry clutched Louis like he was never going to let go. The Troves played in the rain around them, climbing up onto the roof of the tour bus and shoving each other until Sophia came out and screamed at them to get down before somebody broke a bone or killed themselves. And still Louis was the rope and Harry held him, one hand in his dripping hair and the other at the small of his back, cradling Louis to him as tightly as he could. Louis began to sway his hips and just like that they were dancing in the rain, Louis’s arms around Harry’s shoulders and his face buried in the hollow of his throat. Niall laughed at them but soon the sound of music filled the air, Niall turning the radio on inside the tour bus loud enough for Harry to hear. He played a Green Day song, a simple song about love that made Harry think of broken guitar strings and broken noses and rain pounding on the roof of the home he wrote songs in back in Lake George. 

And they danced, swaying in the pouring rain, and maybe all the pain was worth it for moments just like this. Maybe Harry was alive because he was meant to stand right here, New Orleans open to him for a long week of making love and making things up as he went along. And Louis whispered,

“I love you,” into his ear and the song ended and The Troves applauded as Harry and Louis pulled apart, having climbed back onto the roof during the song despite Sophia’s shouting coming from inside. 

“You lovesick fools!” Niall called from the roof of the tour bus, and Harry supposed there were worse things to be. He flipped Niall off, The Troves falling over each other as they laughed, and Harry took hold of Louis and dipped him in his arms.

“Kiss me, you fool,” he said, and he kissed Louis and Louis kissed him back as hard as he could. 

“Boo!” The Troves called, and Harry ignored them. 

“Maybe we should run away together,” Harry suggested. Louis pressed his hands to his chest and shook his head, his hair shaking water to the ground. 

“Nah,” he said. “I have a better idea.”

“What’s that?”

“We can have wild, messy sex all night in the back of the bus and make sure they’re awake all night to hear it.”

“I like the way you think,” Harry said, and Louis grinned against his mouth as he leaned in close to kiss him again. 

 

The first half of the week flew by like nothing, time rolling by so quickly Harry barely had time to breathe. It was okay. He was happy, the difference in him remarkable when he simply chose to be blissfully relaxed instead of wearing himself thin. He let every worry roll off his back and it was hard and it was terrifying but he tried and he tried and he told himself he had no choice but to smile and be glad to even be alive. The longer he tried the easier it got. 

(He leaned towards becoming painfully saccharine but he didn’t fucking care. Louis was sweet as the fucking candy he brought back from the gas station to the tour bus almost every night.)

On the fifth day of break The Troves sat at the table in the tour bus with a stack of pizzas between them, laughing and lounging in their underwear just to annoy Sophia and make her affectionately scold them. Zayn scrolled through his phone reading out loud the most recent posts about The Troves on their fan page, laughing so hard he made strangled choking noises between words. It was not as if the posts and the fans were funny; Harry knew it was just Zayn being himself, laughing at the simple fact that they had fans who (were as loyal to a fault as The Troves themselves) loved them and would do anything for them.

But slowly the laughter faded and Niall was the first to ask Zayn “Hey, what’s wrong?”

“It’s about Pilot’s Poison,” Zayn said, and of course it was. Niall made a growling noise in the back of his throat and Liam said,

“Why are you wasting your time reading about those fucking morons?” In reply Zayn wordlessly showed the screen of his phone to Liam. His eyes scanned the screen and his face went white, opening his mouth to hiss, “Son of a bitch.”

“What?” Harry asked, and Zayn and Liam looked up sharply at him. “What does it say about them?” He tried to lean over the table to see Zayn’s screen but he turned it away. “Just tell me.”

“They got fired from their record label,” Zayn said, voice low.

“So?” Harry snapped. 

“And immediately signed to Diamante Records.”

The tour bus went silent. Louis broke it first by dropping his hand to the table and snapping, “Son of a bitch,” to perfectly echo Liam. And Zayn scowled, nodding along with Louis’s sentiment, and Harry had had enough of being protected. 

“Let me see that,” Harry said, and he took the phone from Zayn before he had time to protest. On the screen was an article titled, “Pilot’s Poison Signed to Diamante Records after Mysterious Fight with Troubled Star Harry Styles”. 

“Son of a bitch,” Harry said, and Louis dropped his head onto Harry’s shoulder to read the article beside him. 

“Troubled rockers The Troves rejected a record breaking deal with Lou Teasdale of Diamante Records earlier this fall,” the article read. “Pilot’s Poison, a young blood band from upstate New York, were in the right place at the right time to pick up the deal The Troves are going to wish they accepted when Pilot’s Poison becomes the next big thing.” 

“Yeah right,” Louis scowled, and Harry hushed him to read the article as his blood began to boil.

“Sources close to The Troves detail a fight between front man Harry Styles and guitarist Michael Clifford,” the article went on.

“Fucking idiots are giving me all the credit for smashing Michael’s face!” Harry cried, and Zayn looked nothing less than murderous as he nodded.

“I know. Keep reading.” In tandem Louis and Harry bowed their heads to read on.

“We have yet to secure an interview with either band, but whatever the reason for the fight that prematurely ended Pilot’s Poison’s run on the Head Space tour, it piqued the interest of Lou Teasdale. A contract has been signed for three albums in five years, a worldwide concert tour kicking off next summer, and a movie deal documenting their very first headlining tour. More details to come as they arise and the story develops.” 

“Fuck me sideways,” Harry said, and he passed the phone back to Zayn before he smashed it against the wall. 

“I know,” Zayn agreed. “Lou Teasdale is a fucking snake.”

“Why do you say that?” Sophia asked as she wandered into the kitchenette and grabbed a cold slice of pizza from one of the open boxes. Without saying a word Zayn pushed his phone towards her. She picked up the phone and scanned the article, her eyes widening, and by the time she finished reading she was shaking with anger. “Son of a _bitch_!” she cried, and she moved to throw Zayn’s phone and he caught her arm to stop her. 

“I know,” he said, and she surrendered his phone to him and dropped to his lap to bury her face in her hands. 

“They’re getting rewarded for trying to kill Harry,” she cried, voice muffled by the heels of her hands. “I should have fucking killed _him_ when Zayn had him up against the wall.” 

“Fuck that; you wouldn’t last a day in prison. I should have killed the fucked up little shit stain the moment I met him,” Zayn said. “I knew he was bad news, I fucking knew.”

Harry did not speak up to tell them that maybe he led Michael on and he had truly thought he was doing something good. 

“I’m so glad you stood up to that witch, Haz,” Sophia told him, eyes glazed with the fierce anger she conjured up each and every time Harry was in trouble. 

“Yeah, she’s a fucking snake,” Zayn said again. “We’re better off where we are. They’ll learn soon enough they should have fucking quit the business and ran for their lives when they had the chance.” The fury in his face would have scared the shit out of Harry if he had had anything to do with Pilot’s Poison; Zayn looked like he wanted nothing more than to strangle Michael Clifford with his bare hands. 

“I can’t believe Lou Teasdale is using you guys to get these stupid kids onstage,” Sophia breathed into her open palms. “God, I’m so stupid. I should have fucking ruined them like I wanted to. I should have done more.”

“Soph, no,” Harry said. “It’s okay.”

“It’s over,” Niall agreed. “No point beating yourself up now, Soph.” Zayn agreed, running his hand up and down Sophia’s back as she tried not to cry in his lap, and her lip trembled when she finally looked up again at Harry. 

“Even so,” she said. “I’m so sorry. I wanted so badly for you guys to make friends; I thought it would make you stop clawing at each other’s throats. I fucked up again and again and I almost cost you your life…more than once.”

“Soph, no, none of this was your fault.” The good mood of the night was gone, replaced by the awful, gut wrenching sound of Sophia beginning to cry. Zayn hugged her, his arms tight around her, but she pushed away from his chest and stood up on shaky legs.

“You idiots are loyal to a fault,” she told them like it was anything new to them. “You should have fired me a long time ago.” She flounced away towards the front of the bus and collapsed in a heap at Jeff’s side and no one moved as they watched her go. 

“She’ll be okay,” Zayn said, and Harry nodded to agree. She was always okay. She was emotional and high strung; they all were. Harry understood that. And eventually she would forgive herself and eventually she would warm up again. She always did. 

“I can’t wait to see those smug bastards all over VH1,” Zayn scowled. 

“Like you said,” Liam replied, patting Zayn on the back. “They won’t be smug for long. Don’t waste another second thinking about them, all of you. They don’t deserve our head space.” It took a long moment for what he had said to sink in but once it did the bad air lifted as fast as it had fallen over them. 

“What?” Liam asked as Niall nearly smashed his face on the table for laughing. 

“Head space?” Niall choked. “Are you serious?”

“The name of the tour, man,” Harry told him when Liam looked at him for help, and a smile broke across his face that made Harry join in the frantic laughter. 

Over and over The Troves were knocked down but over and over they learned again to be okay. 

 

And just like that the break was over and the concert hall in the heart of the city called their name. Sophia rushed backstage from the tour bus to tell them that the show had sold out within hours of the shitty article with their name in the title and she glowed even as she apologized for being so excited about the bad publicity. 

“No publicity is bad publicity if it fills those seats, Soph,” Zayn said as he kissed the side of her head and made her blush. Jeff shoved Harry’s earpiece into his ear and Harry thanked him, thinking for the hundredth time he desperately needed a haircut, his hair getting painfully stuck under the earpiece. 

“Remind me to get a haircut after this show,” Harry asked of Sophia, and her face lit up.

“Do you mean it?” she asked, and he nodded as he tugged hair out from under his earpiece as best he could. Right before he stepped out onstage Louis grabbed him by the shoulder and whispered,

“Just leave me enough to pull when you go down on me, Hazza.” And Harry kissed him and he kissed him until Zayn took him by the arm and dragged him onstage. 

“Easy, tiger,” Zayn said with a wink, and Harry fucking Styles was back in town and he cried,

“Good evening, New Orleans!” and the crowd moved like a tsunami, hands desperate as they reached for him. Tonight he reached right back. His throat ached but it no longer bled and roared in pain every time he spoke. He was okay and he was getting better and he was going to be all right. The crowd swelled and Harry touched more hands than he could count, people grasping his fingers unwilling to let go, and he let them drag him to the edge of the stage and hold him there balancing on his toes so he wouldn’t go falling forward into the front row. But he thought about it (how the crowd never failed him and they carried him no matter what) and he stood, backing away from the searching hands, and he said,

“Arms up, everybody!” and they obeyed because they loved him and they wanted nothing from him but music and joy and the peace only strings and drums could bring. Hands shot into the air and Harry dropped his mic with a bang on the floor of the stage, taking three running steps and leaping into the crowd. And they carried him. They fucking carried him, hands passing over him and groping for him and he didn’t mind at all. He could hear Zayn laughing from the stage as he played his guitar, tripping over the strings as he laughed, and Harry pumped his fists and Liam mimicked his action from the back of the stage where he sat at his drums and Harry was born to be right here. 

The fans passed him back up towards the stage and he put his sneakers on the metal barricade separating the fans from his amp and they pushed him up and he teetered when they let him go, balancing precariously on the barricade with his arms out at his sides. 

“Woah!” he cried, and the fans laughed with brilliant smiles on their faces as he pretended he was going to fall right back into them. He caught himself and he leapt up onstage and Zayn tossed him his mic and this was exactly where he was meant to be. 

(No more pain, no more agony; he belonged here and nothing was going to take it away from him.)

After the show he took pictures with the fans outside the tour bus and he signed his name over and over and over. Everyone wanted a piece of him and he couldn’t fucking blame them; he was Harry fucking Styles and he was going to rule the world if they let him. He collapsed into bed with Louis’s lips all over him and Louis’s hands splayed over his bare chest as he pressed him to the mattress. 

“Mine,” Louis said for the hundredth time, and Harry nodded just the same.

“Yours,” he agreed as the mattress creaked beneath them. They were okay. They were okay.

 

The weeks leading up to Christmas were bitterly cold as The Troves made their way closer and closer to home. But it was warm in the tour bus and it was warm deep in Harry’s chest where his beat up old heart refused to give up on him. Louis was warm and he came back to the bus after a morning out in mid-December with a package in his hands he wouldn’t let Harry see. 

“It’s your Christmas present!” Louis protested as Harry lunged for the box in his hands, hiding it behind his back and smiling from ear to ear. “Just wait!” he ordered. 

“What do you want for Christmas?” Harry asked him, holding him close and pressing kisses to his nose. 

“A wedding band,” Louis replied, and whether he told the truth or not Harry nodded and told him,

“Done.” And as Harry kissed him Louis drew back, the box clutched in his hands a barrier between him and Harry. 

“You know,” Louis said, something sad in his wide eyes, “there’s something you don’t know about me.” And there were a million things, a million and one, and Harry knew that. He knew that, he did, and he was intent on learning every single one.

“What is it?” Harry asked. He tried to kiss Louis, tried to touch him, but Louis pressed the present in his hands to Harry’s chest to keep him at bay.

“My birthday,” Louis said, voice sad and low. The corners of his lips turned down, the shadows under his eyes making him look old, old, old, and Harry wanted to ease them away.

“What about it?” Harry asked. But he knew; not once had he ever asked Louis when his birthday was. And he had probably missed it, he had probably fucking missed it, just because he was slow and never, ever thought to ask. “Lou, what about it?”

“It’s Christmas,” Louis told him, a faint smile ghosting across his lips. “Christmas Eve.” And he looked small and thoughtful and sad, standing before Harry with a box clutched in both tiny hands, and Harry was sorry that for a moment his heart leapt in his chest because he had not missed it, not yet, and he still had a chance to make it up to Louis that he had never, ever asked. 

“Oh, Lou,” Harry said, and when he leaned in to kiss Louis once again he drew away. “I’m sorry,” Harry offered as the look on Louis’s face slowly changed from pensive to mournful. 

“My birthday is on Christmas, Haz, and all my life I never got a real birthday party. It was Christmas, always Christmas, and I’m not upset with you for not asking me when my goddamn birthday is because I could have told you. But now you know.” Louis was a marvel and Harry was something else entirely, slow and not quite sure what it was that made Louis so damn sad, and when Harry opened his mouth to ask Louis answered before he got the chance. “I just can’t help thinking,” he said, toying with the box in his hands, “that we don’t know nearly enough about each other. We don’t know anything. I mean, I know when your damn birthday is, just because I fucking read about it in a magazine, and I know that you’re so damn tired, but what if it isn’t enough? What if we don’t know enough, Haz, and it’s going to kill us?”

(Above all things he was just like Harry, a perpetually lonely boy who was too small and could never stand still long enough to make up his mind.)

“I’ll tell you anything you want to know.” And Harry had not said anything like that before, not to anyone, but Louis was small and Louis was born on Christmas Eve, a goddamn gift to the world, and the thought made Harry want to burst with happiness. “Anything.” 

“I want to tell you something about me first,” Louis said, and that was fine. That was good. And Harry nodded, the two of them squaring off in the middle of the tour bus, and Louis nodded, too. “Okay,” he said. “Okay.” But he did not go on, his hands trembling over the box he clutched like a life preserver, and he took in a deep breath that made the rest of his body quake. 

“Tell me anything,” Harry said, because Louis grew up feeling overshadowed by Christmas and Harry was never going to let him feel that way again.

“I had siblings,” Louis said finally, no longer looking at Harry. “I had so many younger sisters, Haz, little girls who loved me so much, and when I left home I left them behind. I didn’t want to. They cried when I left. All of them. And it’s almost Christmas and I miss them. And you had no fucking idea. Why is that? Shouldn’t you know every part of me?”

“I’m sorry,” Harry said, always slow and always stupid. Louis shook his head.

“It’s not your fault,” he said. “But I miss them, all my family, even though it’s been so damn long since I’ve seen them. And now you and this…and this band, you’re the closest thing to a family I have.”

“I’m sorry,” Harry said, and Louis cracked a smile that made Harry’s heart soar. 

“You’re not all bad,” Louis shrugged, and he was fine. This was fine, he was okay, and no one here was going to cry. And Harry watched his Louis move, the small movements of him, and he tried to imagine Louis with his siblings on his arms, on his knees, balanced on his hips. And it was a lovely thing, something small and simple that was taken away from Louis, and Harry thought wildly for a moment that a baby on his hip was something Harry could give him. It was crazy and fleeting and Louis was beautiful where he stood, far away and dreaming of the family he left behind as a kid. 

“Tell me everything,” Harry said, because he craved the sound of Louis’s voice and he craved more than anything to know him better than anyone. And Louis held his box between them and Harry wanted it gone but the way Louis stood made him think a sudden movement would send him running away like a startled animal. He moved slow when he moved, one hand landing on Louis’s shoulder, and they stood alone in the bus and alone in the world as Harry rubbed Louis’s back in slow circles with his thumb. “Please,” he added, and Louis nodded. 

“Everything,” Louis said, tasting the word, and as Harry guided Louis into a chair and sat at his side Louis began to work at his lip with his teeth, leaving indentations on his skin. 

“Please,” Harry said, stopping just short of begging. And the first thing that tumbled from Louis’s lips was,

“I lied.”

“What?” Harry asked.

“I lied to you,” Louis said, shaking his head and picking at the tape keeping the present in his hands under wraps. “In London, when I told you about my family.” Harry thought back to the moment in their hotel room in London, where Louis showed Harry his and Harry showed Louis his own. 

“Yeah?” Harry asked, and Louis nodded and Louis did not look at him. 

“They did kick me out,” Louis said, shrugging his shoulders as if it was not a big deal, like it was too far away to matter now. “When I told them I was gay. They kicked me out and they tore my sister from my hands right there at the dinner table and they told me they never wanted to see me again. It wasn’t even my dad, Harry, my dad was never in the picture. It was my step-dad who told me to fuck off and it was my mother who let him. And I lied to you when I told you I wasn’t some broken bird who needed fixing. Because back then I was. And Harry, I let people…I let everyone take advantage of me for so long. I was alone, you know? And I thought if I wasn’t alone everything would work out in the end. And I let people use me and I lived with so many fucking men who told me they…that they loved me and would take care of me and in the end, not one of them did.” He shrugged, he fucking shrugged, and the paper under his hands ripped as he twisted at the package and he cursed, tossing it to the side. 

It took Harry’s chest heaving painfully for him to remember how to breathe.

“Oh, Lou,” he said, and nothing he could say would ever be enough. It was bullshit, the way Louis pretended he was fine, that he was not troubled, that there was no part of him that craved being needed. It was fucking bullshit that there were things buried deep inside him that he never wanted to tell and it was fucking bullshit that Harry had never thought to ask. Harry felt sick as he watched Louis mess with a frayed hole in his jeans, fingers nimble, and he wanted to take both hands into his own and bring them to his lips until everything Louis hid from him came out into the open where Harry could see. 

“I finally got out of the cycle of…of older men and of living under their wings and I found my own job, my own place. And I don’t need validation like that anymore. I don’t need anyone telling me they’ll take care of me when I know they won’t. I fucking learned how to take care of myself, Harry, and I sure as hell am going to take care of you.” 

Harry took hold of Louis’s hand, the one bearing the freshly healed rope on his skin, and Harry traced his fingers along the curves of Louis’s wrist, along the ink, and for a long moment Louis did not say a word. 

“Hazza,” he finally said, and Harry squeezed his wrist so hard he squeaked. “Hazza, say something.” 

“What do you want me to say?” Harry asked, and the slender hand he held in both his own quivered and shook as Louis did. He drew Louis’s knuckles to his lips and he kissed them one by one, Louis’s hand warm and his bones creaking. 

“Say you don’t think any less of me,” Louis said, and Harry did not, Harry would never. 

“No,” Harry told him. “I don’t. You’re so brave, Louis. So fucking brave.” And Louis hiccupped, the sound muffling a strangled half sob, and Harry let his teeth brush Louis’s knuckles as he ghosted his mouth across hot skin. 

“Brave?” Louis choked. “Hardly.”

“You’re brave,” Harry told him. “Not like me.” And Louis choked again, hiccupping and struggling not to cry, and Harry did not look him in the eye. He had the idea Louis did not want him to. It didn’t matter, not now, that Louis had held back in London. It did not matter, not now, that Harry had given him nothing but pain. Louis was beautiful and Louis was brave and Harry understood better than anyone, he thought, the reasoning behind keeping those he loved in the dark. 

Harry knew a thing or two about letting go but he could give Louis whatever it was he begged of him. Louis drew Harry to his chest all at once, the present he bought Harry tumbling to the floor at their feet, and when Louis kissed him it was just enough to remind Harry that every goodbye and every stumble was worth it for him, for his Louis. 

They kissed in the kitchenette and they kissed in the hall, tumbling to bed in the back of the bus as the December air swirled in whispers all around them. Snow beat down on the bus, the first of the season, and New Jersey was cold but Louis was warm, warm, warm as he gifted Harry cinnamon scented kisses. And the sorrow in Louis’s eyes was gone and his hands made Harry warm in every spot he felt the chill of winter.

“What did you buy me?” Harry asked as he tugged at the hem of Louis’s shirt, Louis dropping the package he had scooped off the kitchen floor into the corner of the room.

“Guess,” Louis breathed against his urgent lips. Later Harry would tell Louis anything he wanted to know, anything at all, but Louis was brave and Louis wanted Harry now, tangling up with him and kissing him hard enough to make him think Louis wanted nothing more than to forget the past he had finally begun to release. 

“Um,” Harry said. “A double ended dildo?” He could be funny, he could be charming, he could make Louis laugh. Anything for him, anything at all for the boy who pretended he did not need to be loved. 

“Close,” Louis said, “but no.”

“A photo album of naked pictures?”

“Please,” Louis laughed, Harry’s shirt going over his head and hitting the floor in one fluid motion. “You can see me naked anytime you want. Guess again.”

“Mmm…” Harry purred into the soft skin behind Louis’s ear. “Candy flavored lube and a pair of fuzzy handcuffs?”

“Get your head out of the gutter, Harry Styles,” Louis laughed. “Believe it or not,” he murmured as he kissed his way down Harry’s chest, “I have more on my mind besides sex when it comes to you.”

“I don’t know,” Harry said, unable to think straight with Louis’s nose buried in the hair on his stomach. “It’s all I think about, myself.”

“Hush,” Louis said, and Harry obeyed. He whimpered as Louis pressed kisses to the insides of his thighs and Louis reached up without a word to touch his fingers to Harry’s lips. Harry took his fingers into his mouth and it was Louis’s turn to moan as he rolled his hips against Harry’s thigh. “Mmm…” Louis breathed, and he was hard against Harry and he belonged to him and he was beautiful. He rolled his hips and licked and nipped his way down Harry’s body, tongue hot, and all Harry could do was take hold of his beautiful boy by his hair and cry out his name again and again and again.

 

And then The Troves walked off the stage after their last show before Christmas, throwing on their coats backstage to step out into the icy Connecticut winter. 

“Come here,” Harry said as Louis buttoned up his beautiful red wool coat. Louis obeyed and Harry pulled Louis to him by the lapels of his coat and kissed him, Louis’s mouth blissfully warm and sweet and soft. They pulled apart and Harry buttoned up the coat for (his) Louis, leaving the top button open to the hollow of his throat. 

“You’re so beautiful,” he told Louis, and the grin that followed melted the perpetual ice around the heart beating in Harry’s chest. 

“You’re not so bad yourself.” He scuffed his sneakers on the stage floor and his crystal clear eyes shone as he beamed at Harry.

“Stop flirting,” Niall said as he walked by to greet the fans outside. “You already have each other, the hard part is done!”

“Fuck off,” Harry told him, and Niall laughed as he and Liam and Zayn headed out into the night. “I love you,” Harry told Louis. “I love you so, so much.”

“I know,” Louis replied. He looked so small, his hands stuffed in the pockets of his coat, and he looked up at Harry through long eyelashes and smiled bright enough to shine. 

“I love you,” Harry said again. He stepped closer because he couldn’t get enough and maybe he was always meant to have a (blind spot) vice and this time it was Louis. He was always meant to be addicted and the sweet taste of Louis’s tongue was just another drug. Harry was intoxicated with it, so painfully in love he had no idea how to let it out, and Louis furrowed his eyebrows and replied,

“I love you, too.” 

“Marry me.”

“I will.”

“Tomorrow.” 

Louis took a step closer this time to look up at Harry with a smirk on his lips. “Baby, you’re crazy.”

“What do you mean?”

“We have all the time in the world,” he said, taking hold of Harry by the front of his coat. “Don’t we?”

“Yes.”

“So what’s the rush?”

( _To taste the word husband on my lips and know I get you forever_.)

“I love you,” was all he managed to say. Under Louis’s baby blues he suddenly felt small, the look on Louis’s face unreadable. 

(Was that pain?)

“Baby,” Louis cooed, and his hands were on Harry’s cheeks and his fingers were soft and so were his palms as they ghosted over the three day old stubble on Harry’s face. 

“What?” Harry asked.

“You’re so intense, my baby Hazza bee,” Louis breathed. “You’re so alive.”

“And what does that mean?” Harry asked. (Was he getting ready to panic; was he getting ready to run?) Louis pushed the hair Harry had not bothered to cut yet back from his forehead and tucked stray curls behind his ears. 

“Maybe you should relax,” Louis said. “If forever is what you want, it’s yours. All of me, everything…it’s yours.”

“But?” Harry asked. There was always a _but_ , always a reason to run, and if Louis was about to run away Harry was going to lose the scattered pieces of his sanity and his heart that he had been picking back up for weeks. 

“But you don’t have to live every day afraid to lose me,” Louis said. He smiled, warm and gentle, and Harry eased into his touch as his hands pulled the hair at the back of his neck. “I’m not going anywhere, baby, not ever, and I’m waiting every day for you to stop being scared.”

“I’m not scared…” Louis made the same promise before, before Harry had shoved him away, and what was another lie, another promise that meant nothing, in the grand scheme of a love story?

“It’s okay,” Louis said. He stood on his tiptoes and his lips brushed Harry’s so gently Harry wanted to cry. Louis was good and Louis was careful and he knew exactly what to do to stitch gentle seams into the broken pieces of Harry’s heart. “You’re part of me now, Hazza,” Louis whispered against Harry’s mouth. “Don’t you understand that? Forever and ever, babe. That’s all I want. And if that’s what you want, too…then what are you so afraid of?”

Harry wanted to let it all spill out ( _I’m broken, I’m shattered, you’re beautiful and small and I have clumsy hands and a clumsy heart and I am going to break you again and again_ ) but when he opened his mouth all that came out was,

“Louis.” 

“What?” Louis asked. 

“I’m going to give you the fucking world, Lou,” he said. 

“You already did,” Louis replied, and he was small and he was warm as Harry crushed him to his chest and kissed him again and again and again. 

 

On Christmas Eve, on Louis’s birthday, Harry had presents to buy. He was not a good friend and an even worse boyfriend, a list in his pocket detailing the gifts he had to buy for his friends, the only family he had, and he felt guilty for leaving Louis with the band but Louis grinned when Harry told him where he was going. 

“It’s okay,” Louis told him, brushing a kiss on the tip of Harry’s nose. “Just make sure you get me something damn good.” And that was the plan, that was all Harry wanted, and he nodded to try and keep down the anxiety tearing up his throat. Tomorrow he would celebrate Louis’s birthday; he would make sure Louis knew his days of being hidden behind the holidays were over. But today he had a present to buy.

Scared out of his mind, at first Harry walked right by the store on purpose. He paused in the middle of the sidewalk, his Christmas list burning a hole in his pocket, and when he forced himself to step inside a bell tinkled merrily over the door. A man bustled over to him, arms full of empty boxes, and he dropped them behind the counter to grin at Harry and ask him, “What can I do for you?”

“A ring,” Harry said, because Louis was the goddamn love of his life and he had asked Harry for one thing only. “A, uh…an engagement ring. For my…for my boyfriend.” And the man beamed, nodding like a bobble head, and he said,

“What do you have in mind?” And Harry had nothing, no plan, no idea; he never thought and this was no exception. The man was patient and he showed off ring after ring, making sure diamonds and steel caught the light. But Harry had the feeling Louis was not a man who wanted a diamond. He did not know much but he learned more about Louis every day. When the man at the shop began to pull golden rings from the display case Harry leaned in close, examining bands and trying to imagine how they would look on Louis’s slender fingers.

“So,” the man said, waiting for Harry to pick up and look at each and every band in the case. “Tell me about this boy. He must be something special, the way you’re checking every single ring for the right one.” And Harry heard the smile in his voice but he was irritated, slow and angry at himself for his inability to pick something Louis would love, and he looked sharply up at the man so fast he frowned. 

“Sorry,” Harry said. He bowed his head, sorry for shocking the man, and he picked up a golden band with a single diamond in the center. “He is,” he said after a moment, replacing the band back in the case on the counter. “Special, I mean. He’s amazing.”

“How long have you been together?” the man asked as if length of time had anything to do with falling in love, with knowing it’s forever. Harry thought back to the moment he met Louis, to the moment he wrote Louis a song, to the moment he realized he was in love. 

“A lifetime,” Harry said, making the man laugh lightly. He tried to compose himself, pulling the tray of rings from Harry and offering him a new one, and he fumbled for a question as Harry began to pick up the new sets of shining bands. 

“What’s his name?” the man asked, and Harry held between his fingers a simple thing, a shining gold band with no embellishments, no diamonds, and he held it in his palm as he replied,

“Louis.” He loved the taste of the name, even after all this time, and what was the beginning of winter, anyway? He had been with Louis, with his one, his only, long enough, and what did it matter how damn long they had been together? 

“Is that the one?” the man asked, and as Harry watched the thick metal in his hand catch the light he nodded. 

“Yeah,” he said. “This is the one.” 

He was slow and stupid and unsure of himself; he was selfish and scared and not good at building a life, but he was going to give Louis exactly what he asked him for. He could do it. For Louis he could move the Earth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for sticking with me, everyone. 
> 
> I hope you like the update; I'll be back with regular updates in the upcoming week. 
> 
> anyone can reach me on tumblr @ ourl0veisgod
> 
> (I know there has to be a way to link but I've yet to figure it out!)


	15. Chapter 15

On Christmas morning Harry woke up alone in bed with New York City cold and snowy outside his window. He could hear Louis bustling around in the living area of the hotel room they’d returned to and he dropped his head back onto his pillows, reveling in the warmth of the bed. (As far as Christmases went, this year’s was already going to be his favorite.) Harry looked out the window at the gently falling snow and he had the feeling Louis had left the curtains open just for him to see the white, white morning. Snowfall on 42nd street was the most beautiful sight he had ever seen, he thought. Until Louis walked into the room with a steaming mug of coffee in both hands and silver tinsel wrapped around his neck like a scarf. 

“Good morning, babe,” Louis said, nudging Harry over in bed so he could sit at his side. A few days of luxury in a hotel had made Louis come alive; he glowed as he sat by Harry and handed him the peppermint scented coffee. “It’s Christmas!” Louis crowed, waiting patiently for Harry to sit up and take the coffee mug from him. 

“I know,” Harry said. He tried to look at the alarm clock by the bed but Louis had turned it away from him. “What time is it?” Gratefully he took the coffee and sipped at it, the bitterness of the coffee offset by the peppermint creamer Louis had poured into it. 

“It’s early,” Louis said. “But it’s Christmas! The guys will be here soon and I just wanted to give you your present before they got here!” The Troves, the roadies and Sophia had made plans to meet up in the hotel room to visit with Louis and Harry and of course Harry had forgotten, stupid in the glow of Louis. 

“Okay,” Harry said. “Go on then, what did you get me?” Instead of replying Louis laughed and pressed a warm kiss to Harry temple, his face clean shaven for the first time in weeks. “Tell me!” Harry insisted. The coffee in his hands made him warm all over and Louis’s lips on the side of his head made him even warmer. 

“Be patient,” Louis said, his lips at Harry’s ear. “I’m dying to see what you got me, though. It’s for my birthday and Christmas so it better be damn good!” 

“It’s not much,” Harry admitted with a shrug. Louis’s lips distracted him and the tinsel on his neck was itchy on Harry’s face as he leaned closer. 

“I’m sure it’s amazing,” Louis replied. 

“You’re amazing,” Harry said as he dropped the coffee mug unceremoniously onto the bedside table. He took hold of Louis by the waist and rolled over, pulling Louis on top of him to straddle his hips on the bed. 

“What?” Louis asked when Harry didn’t say anything. Harry admired him, his beautiful boy and the gentle curve of his red lips and the tinsel around his throat, and there was nothing he could say that had not been said before in a thousand better ways. Harry was an artist at heart but so many had pined over beautiful boys before and most of them had a much larger vocabulary and a much clearer tongue than Harry Styles. 

“I love you,” Harry said because it was all that he could say. 

“I love you, too.” Louis climbed off of Harry and he reached out for him, missing the weight of Louis’s ass on his thighs. But Louis danced out of his grasp and said, “I’m going to get your present. Be right back.” He left the bedroom and he made his way to the living area and as soon as Harry heard him rustling with the paper covering Harry’s present he dove his hand under the bed to grab for the box he had hidden under there the night before. 

And now, with the black velvet box weighing heavy in his hands, Harry was afraid. He had no idea if he was doing what was right, what he was supposed to do. If he was crazy. If he was wrong. But he fingered the soft corners of the box and he tried to hide away the fear churning his stomach. Harry was nothing if not an addict to anxiety, fear eating away at him no matter how sure he thought he was. And Louis stepped back into the room with a box in both hands, wrapped in shining silver paper to match the tinsel wound around his neck. Harry closed his hands around his own box and dropped it into his lap, pulling the comforter over it to hide it until he was ready. 

“Here,” Louis said, dropping his silver wrapped box onto the bed by Harry and sitting down carefully beside it. 

“What is it?” Harry asked. He picked up the box and shook it, pretending he had an idea of what was inside, and Louis was breathtaking as he laughed to the ceiling and told him, 

“Just open it, crazy boy.” Harry slipped his fingers into the tape at the top of the box, the wrapping paper almost too nice to rip, but Louis grew impatient and Harry chuckled as he threatened to open it for him if he wasn’t going to hurry. 

“I’m enjoying the moment, baby,” Harry said, and at the term of endearment Louis’s lips quirked up into a smile. Louis paused the moment to lean forward, brushing a loose lock of sleep mussed hair away from Harry’s eyes. 

“It’s really not much,” Louis said again. “But I really hope you like it.” He winced as Harry tore open the box, suddenly shy, and he buried his face in his hands as Harry reached into the red and green tissue paper at the top of the box. Just beneath the paper lay a card with Harry’s name on it in Louis’s loopy, messy script. Harry scooped the card into his hand and let it fall open, the inside full of black ink from a pen held in Louis’s hand. Louis did not look at him as he began to read.

“I don’t have a way with words the way you do,” Louis wrote, “but I’m going to give this my best shot. All I really have to say is that you’re it for me. I know I’ve said it before but maybe in writing it’s less of a statement and more of a promise. I love you, I love you. And I never thought I would find someone like you, even as your words kept me alive through a million sleepless nights. I could only dream of finding the person who made me feel the way Harry Styles always did. I just got lucky enough to find the real you. I love you, I love you. All I ask of you is that you don’t get scared. I am here and so are you, my baby Hazza bee, and as long as I am here and you are, too, I think my love for you will be enough to keep us alive. I love you, I love you,” he wrote. “Merry Christmas, Haz. Always, always, Lou.”

And Harry lowered the card and he lowered his eyes and all at once everything he could have ever said seemed it would never be as much as Louis said in a few simple words in a Christmas card. Everything had been said before in a million better ways and Louis was beautiful and he knew what to say to say something new. 

“Lou,” Harry said, surprised when his voice came out a croak, and Louis looked up at him and Harry said, “Thank you.”

“There’s more to it, babe,” Louis said, and the blush on his cheeks was the best thing Harry could have ever hoped to see. He was perfect and he was warm and he belonged to Harry and there was nothing he could ever do to be as good to Louis as he deserved.

(As long as he was here and Louis was here he could do his best to pull down stars from the sky for him and hope it would be enough.)

Harry peered into the cardboard box in his lap and he pulled out a heavy dictionary sized square wrapped in more tissue paper. 

“What is it?” he asked, but Louis hushed him and said,

“Just open it, Hazza.” And so he did. He ripped the paper and peeled it away and underneath was a photo album with a black and brown leather cover. Harry ran both hands over the cover, his fingers skimming the edges, and Louis huffed an impatient breath and said, “Open it, Haz!”

And again Harry chuckled, heart so full it could burst as he cracked the heavy book open. On the first page Louis had scribbled the date in the corner and beneath that he had penned in, “The Head Space Tour.” 

“Oh, Lou,” Harry breathed, but Louis threw his hands up and said,

“You haven’t even looked at it yet! Just look!” Harry could not help but grin as he leafed through the pages full of pictures he vaguely remembered being taken in the bus and on the stage and backstage and in hotel rooms. Louis was not a photographer by any means, the pictures taken with the camera on his phone out of focus and dark and blurry more often than not, but the more Harry saw the more in awe he felt at the weight of photographing each moment Louis had carried since the very beginning. There was a picture of Harry standing on his amp, mid-roar as he cried out to the crowd. There were countless pictures of Harry taking his bows show after show, and of Zayn with his head hung too low to see his face, of Liam behind his drums and of Niall’s beatific grin. There were pictures of Jeff and Nick and Eleanor filling up the stage, of set lists and of lights and of Zayn and Niall and Liam with their arms slung around each other. There were pictures of The Troves in their underwear on the bus, laughing with their faces tilted to the ceiling as they played hand after hand of War. 

Harry swallowed down the lump in his throat but it did nothing to keep at bay the tears pressing hot behind his eyes. 

There were pictures of Louis, taken by Jeff or Eleanor or Nick as he laughed cradled in Harry’s lap. There were pictures of Harry talking animatedly to Zayn in front of concert halls and there were pictures of Harry with a fresh scar on his lip and Louis with fresh love bites on his throat. He leafed past pictures of heartbreak, Harry with a mug of tea held to his lips as Sophia stood beside him with her hand on his back, and pictures of Sophia with tears in her eyes as The Troves hugged her as tight as they could.

Harry couldn’t stop tears from hitting the photos protected by sheets of plastic, rubbing them in with his fingers as they landed on the pages. Louis had been there every step of the way, standing at the sidelines to build a life to unfold before Harry’s hands with every turn of the page, and Harry’s heart was heavy as it swelled with joy and sadness and peace. All the pain they had put behind them was here in these pages, spelled out like a love song, like a tragedy, like a story of a life well lived. Before him like this it was easy (simple) to see the love that surrounded him and The Troves every day they hit the stage, pictures of screaming fans and of fans posing outside the tour bus with one or more of The Troves in their arms. 

“Are you okay?” Louis asked, Harry having forgotten he had an audience as tears hit the best present he had ever received. 

“When did you do this?” Harry asked, flipping through his life on fast forward. 

“Here and there,” Louis replied. “Do you like it?” Harry sniffed and wiped at his streaming nose with the back of his hand. 

“Yes,” Harry said, and on the last page was the best picture he had ever seen. It was a picture of Louis and Harry backstage, Harry with his hands on Louis’s shoulders as he looked him hard in the eye, Louis smiling at Harry like he was the sun. “Who took this one?” Harry asked, not caring at all how much the tears in his throat made his voice hitch. 

“Zayn,” Louis replied. “When I told him I was doing this he offered it up. It’s perfect…I think. What do you think?”

“It’s perfect,” Harry agreed, and he dropped the album to take Louis’s face into his hands and put every ounce of love and joy he had in him into the kiss he pressed to his lips. “You’re perfect.”

“You like it, then?” Louis asked when Harry pressed their foreheads together and drew in a shaky breath to put his tears at bay. 

“I love it,” Harry replied. “It’s the best fucking present I’ve ever gotten.” 

“You don’t have to say that,” Louis said, but Harry quieted him with a kiss that should have set the room on fire. Embarrassed by the gift Harry fawned over, the blush in Louis’s cheeks only deepened as Harry told him, 

“I mean it. It’s perfect. It’s amazing.” 

“It’s really not much,” Louis protested.

“It’s everything,” Harry replied. “It’s my life and it’s your life and to see it all like this, how damn good we have it…fuck.” His voice broke, the old pain returning to his throat, but Louis hushed him and pressed the rapidly cooling mug of mint coffee into Harry’s hand. He took a sip and then another and Louis put it carefully back on the nightstand and looked down at Harry from where he sat beside him. 

“Next time you get scared of this life,” Louis said, cheeks red and lips redder, “you can look in here and remember how loved you are. You won’t ever have to forget again.” It was too much; it was everything, and Harry wiped at his eyes one last time before closing the book on the picture of Louis and him backstage and putting it aside. The gift Harry hid under the comforter seemed small in comparison to the gift Louis had given. 

“Do you want your present?” Harry asked anyway, scared out of his mind, and Louis nodded. “It’s not as good as yours,” he said. “But I got you just what you asked me for.” 

“Hand it over,” Louis teased, enjoying Harry’s nervousness far too much, and he held out one slender hand and waited for Harry to pull out his gift. 

“If you don’t like it I can return it,” Harry said, beginning to ramble as he stuck his hand under the covers and closed his fingers around the tiny box. 

“I’m sure I’ll love it.” Louis beckoned with his fingers and Harry pulled the box out from beneath the covers and held it enclosed in his palm. 

“It’s really nothing special,” Harry said, but Louis was impatient and he tried to unfurl Harry’s fingers to see what it was he hid inside. 

“Harry, let me see.” And Harry was scared (but wasn’t he always?) and he dropped the box into Louis’s waiting hand and for a long moment Louis did nothing but stare down at the velvet box in his open palm. “Oh, Harry,” he breathed, and Harry mimicked him and said,

“Babe, you didn’t even open it yet!” Louis’s eyes flicked up to meet Harry’s through his eyelashes and he smirked, hands steady as they cupped the box. 

“I’m tasting the moment,” he shot back, and just as Harry began to laugh he lifted the lid with a creak and looked at the shining golden object inside. And shock crossed his face, one hand flying to his mouth, and through his hand he gasped, “Harry, you didn’t!” 

“I did,” Harry said, and Louis picked the thick golden band from the white velvet inside the box and held it before his face, eyes wide. 

“You didn’t,” he breathed again, and the awe on his face matched the awe in his voice.

“I did,” Harry said. 

“Oh my God.” Louis twisted the ring in the light, the simple band catching white rays of light from the snowfall outside. “Oh, _Harry_.” With one hand still over his mouth he stared at the ring in his fingers as it gleamed pristine. 

“Do you like it?” Harry asked. “Like I said, it’s not much. It’s a promise ring, if you want it, or an engagement ring if you’d rather call it that, but…”

“Ask me,” Louis said, dropping both hands into his lap and staring open mouthed at Harry. 

“Ask you?” Harry replied even though he knew exactly what Louis wanted. He opened his hand and Louis dropped the ring into it, following the way it shone with his eyes. 

“Ask me,” Louis said again. Harry tossed the covers and the wrapping paper in his lap aside and clumsily he slipped from the warm bed and let his bare feet hit the floor. Louis followed him with wide, wide eyes and parted lips as Harry turned to face him and dropped to one knee on the carpet. It was wild and it was crazy and maybe it was stupid but Harry Styles was all of those things. Louis was, too, his wide eyes the color of the sky, and Harry held the golden band out between his finger and his thumb and he said,

“Louis Tomlinson, will you marry me?” And before he had even finished speaking Louis began to nod, beautiful beyond words in the soft light of a white Christmas, and Harry slipped the golden ring onto Louis’s finger and it fit perfectly, just like it belonged there. Harry looked up at Louis and Louis looked down at his hand and he caught his lip between his teeth and watched the way the ring caught light on his finger. 

“Yes,” Louis said, throwing his arms around Harry’s neck, and the tinsel he wore like a boa got tangled up and nearly strangled him as he threw Harry to the carpet, the two of them landing together in a silver tinsel heap. “Yes,” Louis said with Harry’s face in his hands. “Yes, I would marry you any day of the week.” 

(And maybe _husband_ was not the right word and neither was _fiancé_ , both words too simple for the hole Louis filled in Harry’s heart, but for the moment the only word Harry needed was loved.)

Harry brushed tinsel from his face and sat up with Louis cradled in his lap and Louis buried his face in the crook of Harry’s neck and stayed there, Harry leaving well enough alone and not mentioning the tears that stained his T-shirt as Louis began to cry. 

(They were happy tears, he hoped, the same kind Harry let land soft on the pages of the photo album Louis had gifted him.)

“I love you,” Harry told him. “I love you so, so much.”

“And I love you,” Louis replied, voice muffled by his lips on Harry’s throat. And maybe heaven was too strong of a word or a place that did not exist, but Harry held Louis to his chest and he thought that heaven may have been exactly where they were. 

As far as Christmases went, this year’s was going to be his favorite one yet. 

 

Later laughter filled the room as The Troves and Sophia and the roadies arrived in pairs and threes bearing presents and bottles and food. Sophia pressed a kiss to Harry’s forehead and a box into his hands and the pile of presents marked _Louis_ and _Harry_ grew and grew in the corner of the room. Harry had told them tonight was not a Christmas party, not anymore. It was Louis’s birthday party. And as everyone arrived Louis’s grin grew wider and wider when they greeted him with, “Harry Birthday, Lou!” instead of, “Merry Christmas,” and Harry wore a smile of his own so wide it made his cheeks ache at the happiness the greetings gave to Louis. 

Harry was never good at buying presents but he had done his best, handing out gifts Louis had helped him pick out to the only people he ever needed at his side. Zayn fawned over the chipped old guitar pick Harry had found online, formerly belonging to Zayn’s guitar playing hero, Billie Joe Armstrong. Sophia kissed him on the cheek hard enough to make him blush and push her away when she realized he had stolen her lipstick from her purse to find the brand and buy her a new set of just the right kind. 

So maybe he was getting better at deserving the love he received each and every day. He chose to feel that way, anyway, as he sat with Louis in his lap and his best friends lounging in chairs and on the couch all around him. Louis twisted his hand into Harry’s hair and for the hundredth time Sophia scolded Harry, telling him he had to cut his hair before the tour kicked off again on January 2nd. 

“The girls love it, Soph!” Zayn protested over the rim of the glass he sipped whiskey from. 

“Yeah, you think they’re in it for the music until Harry gets a haircut and then bam! you’re out of a job and our audience goes AWOL!” Niall added. He was drunk enough to weave even as he sat curled up at Zayn’s side on the couch and he looked good and happy and well as he smiled. 

“I work hard to look this good,” Harry joked with a shrug. “The least they can do is appreciate it.” Zayn shook with laughter as he stood and poured himself another drink, offering Louis a refill on the glass he clutched in the hand not tangled in Harry’s wild mane. 

“Yeah,” Louis said, handing Zayn his glass, and when he moved his hand the ring on his finger caught light from streetlamps outside and as Zayn filled Louis’s glass with whiskey he eyed it with curiosity gleaming in his eyes. He wanted to ask and Harry did not blame him; they were blissfully young and terrifically happy and maybe it was strange but maybe the people around him had a right to know the truth. Zayn passed Louis his glass and then changed his mind, taking it from his hand and putting it down on the coffee table in front of the couch to hold out his hand to Louis. 

“Can I see?” he asked, and Louis was gorgeous as he blushed. “Don’t be shy; let me see.” Louis obeyed and he let Zayn take his hand and admire the simple gold band decorating his ring finger. And then all eyes were on the two of them as Zayn stood with Louis’s hand in his and Louis watched him, eyes tracing his face as he waited for the inevitable reaction to come. 

“That’s real nice,” Zayn finally said, releasing Louis’s hand and turning away to pick up his drink from where he had set it down. He handed it to Louis and he laughed as Louis took a gulp and tried to beam through the grimace he couldn’t hide from the taste. 

“Let me see!” Sophia said next, and then she was crouching before Louis with both hands held out and she took his hand and she did not question Harry and she did not question Louis, content in looking up at the two of them with watery eyes and saying, “It’s beautiful, Haz.” 

“Thank you,” Louis replied for him, and the roadies and The Troves took a turn one by one admiring the band on Louis’s finger. And Harry’s heart was going to burst in the best goddamn way and he had no idea what to do but bury his face into the crook of Louis’s neck and kiss him there, Louis squirming in his arms when Harry’s stubble tickled him. 

After a long moment of silence Zayn broke it by asking with a smile Harry could hear in his voice, “So…this is awkward. Who gets to be the best man?” Louis laughed and Harry kissed his neck again, Louis tightening his hold on Harry’s hair. 

“It’ll have to be a fight to the death,” Louis said, and he choked on the whiskey in his mouth when Zayn replied, 

“I’d kill all of you with my bare hands to stand next to Harry at the altar.”

“That’s sweet of you,” Harry mumbled into Louis’s neck. “I’d love to see that.” He drew away from Louis and made eye contact with Zayn and it was all over; they broke into laughter and Zayn covered his face with his hands, making snorting noises from trying to keep his braying laughter quiet. 

“You’re crazy if you think he wouldn’t pick me in a second,” Niall said next, and Zayn had tears on his face from laughing so hard and Liam said, 

“Hey now, what about me?” and the warmth in Harry’s chest was indescribable as he watched his friends fall over each other with laughter, Zayn dropping his head onto Niall’s shoulder and Liam almost falling off the couch. And there was no doubt in Harry’s mind that he was the luckiest man in the world, doomed to die at twenty-fucking-four but ignoring the hand dealt to him and turning it into something new. The love and the happiness in the room kept it warm as the snow continued to fall on a quiet New York City. 

Late at night Sophia disappeared to her car, returning with a cake in her arms decorated with purple icing, the words, “HAPPY BIRTHDAY, LOUIS!!!” written on top in Sophia’s neat cursive. She made everyone wait as she enlisted Harry to stab candles into the frosting, lighting them one by one and carrying it back to where Louis sat blushing crimson on the couch. 

“Happy Birthday, baby!” she crowed, and she conducted The Troves as they sang to Louis, Harry’s blushing boy hiding his face as he grinned wide enough to split his face in two. He blew out his candles, his eyes slipping closed, and the look on his face told Harry he had made a wish he knew was going to come true. Sophia spoiled Louis, dropping gift after gift into his lap wrapped up silver to set them apart from his Christmas gifts she had wrapped in white.

“Soph, you didn’t have to!” Louis beamed as she scolded him for saying so, reminding him her gifts to him were nothing to call home about. But Harry knew how Louis felt because he felt much the same; from Sophia it meant the world. Zayn and Niall and Liam pulled Louis into a wild mess of a hug, the four of them hitting each other in the eyes with their hands as they tried to disentangle themselves. And this was good, the mess of it all, and this was fine, the boys so far from the boys who met Louis right in this city back in the fall. And Harry was happy, the winter closing in on him, but Louis’s eyes glistened in the dim light of the hotel room and Harry could not have asked for a better night.

In pairs and in threes the group began to disperse as the night wore on, heading their own ways to their own temporary homes. They said their goodbyes and gave tight hugs, Harry already looking forward to the day they could get back up onstage. 

“See you soon,” Zayn said, the hug he gave Harry eons away from the one armed hug he had given him in Lake George, and he mussed Harry’s hair and told him to get a haircut and said, “Careful with your heart, Harry. You never know when you’ll need it back.” (Harry thought he knew what Zayn was trying to say without saying it; everything in Harry’s life happened faster than the speed of light and Zayn was scared as he was to be so deeply in love it hurt him.) 

“I love you, man,” Harry said in reply, hoping the way he held Zayn to his chest was thanks enough for all that he had done. Niall and Liam and the roadies gave Harry and Louis overbearing hugs, tight and drawn out like they didn’t want to say goodbye, but soon it was quiet and Sophia was the only one left who had yet to say goodnight. 

“You two have a good holiday,” she said, one hand on Harry’s cheek and the other on Louis’s. “Be good to each other. I’ll see you soon.” (She was concerned, too but Harry didn’t need it; what were they all so afraid of?) 

“Not if I see you first,” Harry teased as he kissed the top of her head and crushed her to his chest. 

“Yeah, yeah,” she grumbled. “Happy Birthday, Lou,” she said as she struggled to escape Harry’s hug. She pulled away, straightening out her coat, and she gave them a wave and with that she was gone. Long after the door closed for the night Harry and Louis sat in silence on the couch, the TV on to some Christmas movie Harry had not seen in years, and Louis idly spun the ring on his finger and did not say a word.

“What are you thinking about?” Harry asked after a while. Louis turned to look at him, the long day he had had showing in the dark circles under his eyes. 

“You,” he replied.

“What about me?”

“I’m busy,” Louis replied instead of answering the question, and he closed his eyes and Harry watched him as he sat in quiet thought. 

“Busy?” Harry teased when a long minute passed in silence. 

“I’m imagining,” Louis said, “what it’s going to be like being Louis Styles.” He cracked one eye open and the look he gave Harry was one of pure fire and as soon as the words left his mouth Harry felt a surge of longing hit him like a tidal wave. 

“Yeah?” he managed, inching closer to Louis on the couch. 

“Yeah,” Louis nodded. He closed his eye and inhaled deeply through his nose and tilted his head towards the ceiling. “I like the sound of it,” he said, “Louis Styles. What do you think?”

“Dunno,” Harry said. “I think I’d rather be Harry Tomlinson.” The urge to change never left him, the idea of leaving his name behind so appealing he wanted to close his eyes at Louis’s side and imagine it.

“We could always hyphenate,” Louis laughed, and instead of replying Harry obeyed the aching in his guts and he lunged for Louis, his hands diving into his hair. 

“Mmm,” Louis breathed, their mouths colliding, and it didn’t matter that Louis tasted like whiskey when on his tongue he tasted like a future where Harry could call him his husband. Louis moaned as Harry kissed him and he whined in protest when he pulled away. 

“Come here,” Harry said, and he stood and he was lightheaded but that was all right as he scooped Louis into his arms and swung him off the couch. Louis clung to his neck, tipsy and laughing, and Harry carried him to the bed they got to share for one week more. Harry dropped (his fiancé) Louis onto the bed and he lunged for him again, straddling his hips and kissing him as deeply as he could. Louis was fire and Louis was heat and his lips were hungry and so were his hands, sliding up under Harry’s shirt to drag his fingernails down Harry’s back. It hurt but so did a lot of things, and the band on Louis’s finger was cold on Harry’s skin. 

(It was a promise; he couldn’t give Louis much but he could give him his forever.)

Harry broke away from Louis’s desperate mouth and Louis whined, but he dropped his lips to Louis’s throat and the whimpering turned to a groan. Harry pressed kisses to Louis’s soft skin, intoxicated by the sugary sweet scent of him. And when he sucked at Louis’s neck he arched his back off the bed, his hips bucking into Harry, and the whimper he breathed to the ceiling was filthy and broken and absolutely indescribable. 

(And this boy was his, this boy was forever.)

“Harry,” Louis breathed, his fingers tangling in Harry’s hair. And again, rough this time, “Harry…” 

“What?” Harry asked, his tongue at Louis’s ear. 

“Ask me,” Louis said. “Ask me, ask me.” And no matter how many times he said it the words tasted as sweet every time. 

“Marry me,” Harry breathed. 

“Okay,” Louis replied. “If you insist.” Harry let his lips do the talking for his tongue, his mouth painting bruises on Louis’s throat right where his heartbeat raced just beneath warm skin. “Okay,” Louis breathed. “Okay, _I_ insist.” Louis groaned, voice pained, as Harry used his hands to trace the shape of Louis’s rolling hips. Louis took hold of Harry’s searching hand with his own, the ring on his finger cold on Harry’s wrist (the cold touch of metal sent goose bumps flying up Harry’s arms and he shivered with his lips at Louis’s collar bone), and Louis guided Harry’s hand to the button on his jeans and without a word Harry fumbled them open. And when Harry’s mouth found Louis’s again it was okay that he tasted like alcohol and it was beautiful, the sweat on his skin. 

“Love you,” Louis whined. Harry stroked Louis through his underwear and Louis cried out his name like a prayer. “Fuck, fuck, I love you.”

And Harry smirked, blessed beyond belief to be holding this boy in his arms, the best Christmas present he could have ever asked for, and he tugged at the hem of Louis’s shirt and just like that it landed on the hotel carpet. It was dark in the room but the streetlights of Manhattan were just enough to light an orange glow on Louis’s bare chest and his stomach and the open button of his jeans. He breathed hard, cheeks flushed, and Harry couldn’t breathe for staring at him. 

“Touch me,” Louis said, and Harry kissed him, nipping at his lip and making him sigh. “Kiss me,” Louis said as Harry pulled away, and when Harry sat on his hips and waited for him to give another order Louis touched his hand to the dark hair on his stomach and said, “here.” And Harry obeyed because all he wanted was a lifetime of obeying Louis (Louis was good and he would never ask anything of Harry he could not do) and Harry pressed a trail of kisses down Louis’s chest to his stomach, his hands on Louis’s hips. Louis bucked beneath him, both hands tangling in Harry’s hair. The soft whimpers Harry’s lips drew from his mouth were enough to make Harry want to cry (he was too beautiful, he was impossible; but here he was and he wasn’t going anywhere). 

“Here,” Louis said, and one hand left Harry’s hair and Harry followed Louis’s slender fingers and his gleaming ring with his eyes. And he obeyed, kissing Louis’s thighs and sucking at his soft, soft skin. “Fuck,” Louis cried. He was amazing, he was light, and it hurt when he buried both hands back into Harry’s hair but he was perfect and he was the sun and it didn’t matter because he breathed Harry ’s name and called him baby as he came apart beneath his hands. He groaned when Harry pulled away but the beautiful wounded sound turned into a whimper halfway out of his mouth as Harry slipped his fingers into Louis’s belt loops and pulled his jeans down to his knees. 

“Love you,” Louis told him for the thousandth time (it would never be enough, though, and Harry’s heart raced each and every time) and his hands curled into Harry’s hair and pulled just enough to hurt. 

“Fuck,” Harry groaned in reply. Louis was graceful and Louis fucking liked it rough, moaning out loud as Harry dug his fingernails into Louis’s thighs. The next thing to hit the floor was Louis’s jeans. He lay beneath Harry, hot and beautiful with sweat glistening on his chest and in the hollow of his throat, and he was Harry’s and his lips were parted as he breathed and he was so much; he was everything. Harry’s breath hitched in his throat as he watched Louis watch him, his head spinning and his stomach aching with want, and then Harry slipped one hand into the waistband of Louis’s underwear and Louis was gorgeous and naked beneath him on the bed as the underwear joined the rest of his clothes on the carpet. Harry was hot enough to suffocate in all of his clothes, sweat rolling down his back, and Louis was flushed pink and he was perfect and his hands clutched Harry by his ass as he grinded up against him. 

“Take off your fucking clothes,” Louis ordered. “What are you waiting for?” And that was all Harry needed; he threw his shirt over his head and Louis watched him move, hunger written all over his perfect face. Harry stood and nearly fell, the blood in his body rushing from his brain to below his belt as he ripped it off and let his jeans join Louis’s on the floor (they looked good together, two pairs of faded old Levis landing on top of each other on the hotel carpet). Louis whimpered, broken and low, when Harry took too long to crawl back on top of him in the bed, and his hands took hold of Harry by the hips (his ring was cold and the coldness seeped into Harry’s bones but it was a coldness he could live with) as he yanked Harry into bed. Harry was hard and Louis was harder, the two of them rolling under the covers together as Louis pressed Harry to the mattress. 

“Hi,” Louis said, teeth gleaming in the moonlight.

“Hi,” Harry replied. And Louis was so, so warm and his lips were hungry as he bit and sucked and licked at Harry’s throat, all the pain and the tired aches leaving Harry as Louis’s mouth cured him of each and every one. 

“Love you,” Louis whispered against his skin. “I love you.” It never stopped giving Harry butterflies deep in his stomach, the way Louis spoke in awe when he said those three small and simple words that were not in any way small or simple at all. 

“I love you, too,” Harry tried to say, but Louis bit down hard on the skin behind his ear and all words were lost, his brain scattering. Louis was everything and Louis was perfect and his hand danced down Harry’s chest, his fingers pausing to pinch at Harry’s nipple until he squirmed away. 

“Don’t go anywhere,” Louis ordered, a hint of a husky laugh in his voice, and each word dripped sex and power and lust and Harry definitely was not going anywhere anytime soon. 

“I’m here,” Harry breathed, and Louis walked his fingers down Harry’s ribs, touching down on each one, and he slid his hand across Harry’s stomach and tangled his fingers in his pubic hair. 

“I know you are,” Louis said. “I know.” He was gorgeous and he was not careful anymore, his mouth rough on Harry’s chest as his teeth touched skin. “Don’t go anywhere,” he said again.

“Never,” Harry agreed. ( _Anything for you, baby; anything for you_.)

Louis stroked Harry with gentle fingers and it was all Harry could do to keep from bucking his hips and begging Louis to take him. Louis was too much; Louis was too good, and Harry needed him more than he needed air or blood in his body. (More than he had ever needed any drug, but he was not going to tell Louis that.) 

“Kiss me, baby,” Louis said, and his eyes were crystal clear and dark with want as Harry raised his head off his pillow just enough to press his lips to Louis’s. Louis opened his mouth and he drew Harry in, his tongue rolling over Harry’s as they kissed without drawing breath, falling into each other until nothing else mattered. The hair at Louis’s temples was damp with sweat and his eyes were wide, wide, wide and he exhaled a breath that smelled like expensive booze and cinnamon sugar and when he kissed Harry again he stopped breathing altogether. (Harry knew the feeling; Louis took his breath away more times than he could ever count.) And Louis groped for Harry and his hand closed around him, the gold ring on his finger cold as Louis dabbed at the pre-cum glistening on Harry’s painfully throbbing cock. Harry watched him, in awe as Louis slipped his finger into his mouth, moaning filthily as he tasted Harry on his tongue. 

(Harry was going to explode; if he did not get Louis to beg for mercy soon he was going to fucking die.)

“You’re so fucking hot,” Harry said, and Louis smirked around the finger in his mouth before taking it out and pressing it to Harry’s lips. Obediently Harry opened his mouth and Louis slipped his finger inside. Harry rolled his tongue, sucking spit from Louis’s finger, and the noise Louis released from between tight teeth was fucking pornographic. 

“Shit,” he sighed, dropping his head and dropping his hand back to the hair on Harry’s stomach. He traced the curves of Harry’s hips with his fingers and then his hand dropped back down, sliding down Harry’s thighs as Louis watched Harry’s face with lust heaving his chest and parting his red, red lips. Harry was sure he looked just like Louis did, lost and red faced and starry eyed. He felt it in his bones, the heat Louis gave him with his hands, and Louis kissed his forehead and kissed his hair and pressed gentle kisses to each of his eyes. 

“Love you,” Louis breathed. “God, I love you.” 

“Okay,” Harry replied, in disbelief he could speak at all. “But not as much as I love you.”

“Fuck off,” Louis replied, and he took Harry into his hand and squeezed, all traces of gentleness leaving his body all at once as he tensed, coiled up like he was waiting to strike. He stroked Harry and Harry arched up into his hand, wondering how anything could feel this goddamn good. (Nothing was as good at Louis’s hands on him, not anything.) Harry got sweat in his eyes and he blinked to clear his vision, Louis doubling and tripling before him in the dark orange glow of a snowy Christmas night. The tinsel Louis had worn around his neck lay in a heap on the floor beside the pile of haphazardly discarded clothes and it caught light from outside and splashed silver sparkles across the ceiling and the bed and Louis’s face in the dark. 

“I love you,” Harry said again just because he could (Louis was his and he could say it all he wanted for the rest of his damn life; there was no using it up or lessening the meaning), and Louis groaned against his mouth as they crashed together again and again. 

“I love you,” Louis insisted, obscenely gorgeous and obscenely saccharine, and Harry obeyed the heat rising in his stomach and rolled his hips up to meet Louis’s as they moved together. 

“I love you,” Harry shot back, and Louis purred, smirking against Harry’s lips. 

“You’re going to overuse it, babe,” Louis warned, but Harry shook his head.

“Not possible,” he said. Louis’s palm was sweaty on Harry’s skin and with the hand he wasn’t using to lazily stroke Harry he dug his fingers into Harry’s scalp and held on for dear life. 

“If you ever cut your hair,” Louis growled in his ear, “I’m going to fucking kill you.” 

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Harry breathlessly replied. And Louis lifted both hands and Harry’s eyes flew open before he realized he had shut them to see where Louis had gone. But he was there, right there sitting on Harry’s thighs with a drop dead sexy grin on his lips, devilish and a little bit sweet, and Harry wanted him and needed him and would do anything in the world to have him. 

“You’re so damn hot,” Harry told him for the thousandth time, and Louis grinned and Louis looked at Harry through his long, long eyelashes and then he lowered his head and he took Harry into his mouth all at once. “Fuck,” Harry cried, Louis’s mouth hot and wet all around him, and Louis opened his mouth to drag his tongue from base to tip, his teasing goddamn smirk widening at the corners when Harry tossed his head back and cried out in agony. 

“What?” Louis purred, ferocious and mean as he slackened his filthy mouth and let his teeth touch Harry’s burning skin. “Do you like that?”

“Fuck off,” Harry eloquently replied. He didn’t have enough air in his body to say anything more, his lips parted as he gasped at Louis’s touch. But Louis was good and Louis understood and he pressed sloppy kisses to the base of Harry’s cock, gently sucking and lapping with his tongue. And Harry was going to die if he didn’t cum soon. Louis knew it, too, grinning as he controlled Harry with nothing but his tongue and his throat and the hands working knots from Harry’s thighs. 

“Fuck,” Harry cried to the ceiling. “Fuck, Lou, you’re so…fucking…good.” He was hot; he was melting, and Louis reveled as he came undone, taking Harry into his mouth and tasting him with his hungry tongue. Harry carded his hands through Louis’s hair, fucking desperate for him, and Louis whined deep in his throat when Harry began to pull harder than he meant to. But Harry didn’t (couldn’t) stop and Louis did not try to stop him. He was not grinning anymore, his eyes slipping closed as they rolled back, and he worked Harry with his mouth like he was never going to get enough. (Harry knew the feeling well.)

“Cum for me, baby,” Louis demanded, and Harry didn’t want to; he wanted to catch this moment in his hands and keep it forever, Louis gorgeous with his red, spit slick lips stretched over Harry’s cock and his eyes so hungry he could have swallowed Harry whole. 

“Make me,” Harry choked in return. “Fucking make me.” The growl Louis released made every inch of Harry thrum with want, his fingers and his toes tingling as the blood spun away from them and away from his head. 

(Who needed to think, anyway? Harry never did think at all and he was not about to start with Louis sucking him like it was never going to end.)

“Harry Styles,” Louis breathed into Harry’s stomach, pressing desperate kisses into his skin, “I’m going to make you wish you never said that.” And it didn’t matter, it didn’t fucking matter, because one way or another Louis was going to end this, he was going to show Harry mercy, but the sudden disappearance of his lips from Harry’s stomach made his eyes fly open again in panic. 

“Lou,” he said, wild to keep a tremor from his voice. “Lou, God, please.”

“Please what?” Louis drawled, and he swirled his tongue over the fresh pre-cum beading on Harry’s cock and Harry was going to fall to pieces. 

“Finish me,” Harry whined. “Please, baby, please, fucking finish me.” He sounded wrecked and Louis was a smug bastard and he grinned, teeth shining in the dark. 

“I don’t think I will,” he purred, and his smirk faltered for a moment when Harry yanked too hard at his hair in agony. “Let go of me,” Louis ordered. And as much as it pained him (it was the last goddamn thing Harry ever wanted to do) Harry obeyed. He released Louis’s hair, dropping his hands to his sides, and Louis pushed his hair back with both hands (his was long, too, far too long but beautiful just the same, wild as he carded it back) and sat back on Harry’s hips in no hurry at all.

“Fuck, Lou,” Harry whined, the world narrowing to the pain of Louis keeping him from finishing and the gorgeous, fucking sexy look of lust on Louis’s face.

“You look so damn good when you beg for me, Hazza,” Louis said. “So fucking good. Do it some more.” And he owned Harry and he knew it (Harry was power and Harry was dominance but only when he took the stage; here Louis was the one who held all the cards and he was never going to let Harry forget it) and there was nothing Harry could do but obey.

“Let me,” Harry panted. “Fucking let me cum. Please.” He bucked his hips but Louis held him down on the bed, face stern as he tried not to laugh at Harry’s pain. (He was going to pay; Harry was sure of that.) 

“I don’t know,” Louis said. He leaned down, his forehead meeting Harry’s, and as Harry tried to kiss him he pulled just out of his reach and said, “I think I have a better idea.” 

“What?” Harry asked. 

“Just wait and I’ll show you,” Louis breathed. And he hopped off of Harry and immediately Harry grabbed for him, missing the heat of his skin, but Louis swatted his hands away and tiptoed over the pile of their clothes. Harry reached for Louis’s beautiful, perfect cock as he rummaged through the drawer of the bedside table but again Louis swatted him away.

“Hands off, sweet thing,” Louis scolded, and he closed the drawer and came away with a condom in one hand and a brand new bottle of some fruity scented lube in the other. And he straddled Harry’s hips, completely naked except for the engagement ring on his finger, and he held the condom between his first two fingers and spoke slow as he said, “How do you feel about me fucking you, baby?”

Harry ’s stomach dropped and he felt his jaw go slack as he scrambled for an answer, coming up with nothing more than, “Lou, I can’t…I’m not…wow, I…” (He was struck dumb by Louis for the millionth time and it was nothing new but this definitely was.) 

“Scared?” Louis teased, quirking up one eyebrow, and he took Harry’s face in his hands and kissed him stupid, the condom wrapper in his hand nearly taking out Harry’s eye as Louis slipped his tongue into Harry’s open mouth. Harry pulled away as best he could with Louis carding his hands affectionately through his hair to snap,

“I’m not scared!”

“Great,” Louis said. “Then roll the fuck over.” And Harry was so fucking gone for him and the command in his voice and the lust burning in his blue, blue eyes. 

“I…” Harry tried, but Louis kissed him hard enough to make him come up gasping for air, biting down hard on his lip and releasing it only when Harry whined from the pain. 

Louis spoke only one word in reply to Harry’s attempt to backpedal. “Now.” And it was all over. Harry would do whatever Louis asked of him, no matter how (scared) new he was at all of this, at rolling onto his stomach and listening to Louis tear open the condom with his teeth. Harry buried his face in his arms and Louis was heavy on his thighs, quiet as he unrolled the condom and rubbed gently at Harry’s back with soft strokes of his fingers. 

“You okay, baby?” Louis cooed, and unbelievably Harry nodded. Sure. He was fine. He could do this. He wanted this. But it was new and he was terrified, Louis’s hands easing tension from his back just as quickly as his words brought it all back. “Good,” Louis said in reply to Harry’s weak nod. “Because I’m going to fuck you until you can’t see straight.” Louis took hold of Harry by his hips and he tried to crane his neck to look back at him, desperate to see his face, but then Louis’s cock brushed up against Harry’s ass and he lost all sense of where his tongue was, impossibly heavy somewhere in his mouth. 

“Get on your knees for me, my baby Hazza bee,” Louis purred. He fucking purred, smug and warm as Harry obeyed him. (He was going to fucking pay later, Harry conjuring up ideas of fucking tying him to the bed with tinsel and making love to him until he saw stars.) On his hands and knees Harry felt frighteningly exposed, far too open as Louis reached around him to gently stroke at his cock with one hand and dance his fingers up Harry’s spine with the other. 

“You’re so hot,” Louis breathed. He leaned forward over Harry as he trembled with his hands buried in the comforter and his knees already beginning to ache and he took hold of Harry by his hair and yanked his head back. Harry looked at Louis and his wild upside down smirk and Louis tugged at his hair and said, “I can’t even tell you how long I’ve been waiting for this.” He let go of his fistful of Harry’s hair and dropped his hand to the small of Harry’s back, holding his palm right where his spine met his ass. 

“You okay?” Louis asked, and gulping and wishing he had a glass of water to unlock his throat Harry did the only thing he could do. He nodded. “Okay,” Louis said. “Okay.” He held all the fucking cards, his hands roving over Harry’s back and his thumbs digging in hard where Harry ached. (He had no idea how Louis knew his body so well but there it was, Louis rubbing slow circles into Harry’s skin and easing away years of pain and damage.) 

“Want me to be gentle, baby?” he asked, his hands dropping to trace the curve of Harry’s ass and then down to his thighs. 

“Fuck off,” Harry replied because it was all that he could say, and Louis chuckled and Harry could see without looking the way he brayed laughter to the ceiling. It made some of the fear go away, the image of Louis laughing like he always did, and Harry was so fucking hard and so was Louis and maybe this was okay. Maybe this was all right. And Harry said, “Get on with it, you cocky bastard,” and Louis stopped laughing and pinched Harry’s thigh enough to hurt. “Bruise me,” Harry challenged. “Fucking mark me.” Louis made a noise between a sob and a sigh and with that all sounds of laughter were gone. 

“Are you sure?” Louis asked, and Harry was wild and he was gone, gone, gone for the beautiful boy with beautiful hands and he nodded and he opened his mouth and he begged.

“Please,” Harry said. “Please.” 

“Okay,” Louis said. “All right.” (And maybe he was nervous, too, scared of something new just as Harry was, and maybe that was okay.) Harry heard the bottle of lube pop open, Louis unrolling the condom and slicking himself up, and he wanted to see Louis’s face, he wanted to see the way Louis looked at him. But Louis took hold of Harry’s hips with sweaty hands and for so long Harry wanted to scream for wanting it he paused, unsure. 

“What’s wrong?” Harry asked, and Louis hushed him and replied, a smirk in his voice,

“I’m tasting the moment,” just like he had that morning. Harry wanted to laugh and he wanted to tell Louis to stop, he couldn’t do this, this was crazy. But more than that he wanted something he had never wanted before. He wanted Louis deep inside him. 

“Stop tasting it and fuck me,” Harry growled, and the noise Louis made nearly sent Harry reeling. 

“Wild boy,” Louis told him, and all at once Louis’s cock was back at Harry’s ass, hard and slick, and slowly, slowly, Louis began to work his way inside. At first, Louis careful and slow and calm, it was nothing short of unpleasant, painful and too hot and too much and too full, but as Harry tried to relax and keep himself calm because this was his boy (his fiancé) he breathed through his nose and it was okay, it was okay, it was okay. Louis fucking filled him up, so hot and so _huge_ inside him like nothing Harry could have ever imagined. (What a fucking image, Harry fucking Styles on his hands and knees for a beautiful, glorious boy; he wondered what fucking Rolling Stone would have to say about him now and he nearly barked out a laugh at the thought. Fuck them. Fuck them.) 

It hurt but Louis was good and for all his fucking bravado he was gentle as he could be. He held tight to Harry by his hips and he pushed in slow, hot and hard and all that Harry could have ever asked for. He was everything; he was the snow falling outside and he was the Manhattan lights and he was tinsel and cinnamon and Christmas and whiskey and shitty TV and heroin and falling asleep on the floor backstage. He was safety and heat and sweat and sugar, bright spotlights and street signs and ice cream and candy and the emerald ring Harry wore on the same finger Louis wore his brand new band on. Louis filled Harry up and Harry let him in, the heat of him sharp and deep and everywhere, and Harry was scared until Louis let out a soft, whimpering moan. 

And Harry wanted this. He wanted it so badly, aching for Louis deep inside him, and it was indescribable how fully Harry felt Louis as their bodies met with each careful roll of Louis’s hips. He groaned again, louder this time, and Harry wanted to crane his neck because he had a feeling Louis was not quite so smug now, but Louis grabbed a fistful of Harry’s hair and once again Harry was compliant, falling into Louis’s touch as Louis began to really buck his hips. It hurt, it fucking hurt, but Louis was calm and Louis was the rope to Harry’s pulling anchor and together they were okay. They were okay. And Harry would not trade this for the world. 

“Baby…” Louis breathed. “Baby, God.” He rolled his hips and his hands opened and closed on Harry’s skin, fingers trembling as hard as Harry’s thighs. “You’re so fucking good,” Louis sighed. His voice was beauty and his hands were grace, pulling too hard on Harry’s hair and scratching too hard at his hip. But it was okay; he was okay. He was fine. Harry dropped his head as Louis pushed deeper inside, biting on his forearm to keep from crying out in pain. It hurt but Louis was sweet and Louis pressed kisses to Harry’s spine, his tongue tracing along Harry’s bare skin to his fucking bones. (Louis had always been in his goddamn bones, right from the moment he found him dying in a dirty New York City alley.) 

“So good,” Louis said as if the sighs and the whimpers escaping him were not proof enough. And Harry wanted to tell him he was not so bad himself, the complete fullness he felt warming him down to the marrow in his bones. But he couldn’t. Louis was too much and Louis was wild, bucking into Harry and making soft strangled noises in the back of his throat.

“Don’t,” Harry managed, drawing in a deep breath to the rhythm in which Louis fucked him, “be scared to…to hurt me. Just…” He sighed, closing his eyes and letting Louis’s hands and his voice and his cock be his entire world. “Just fuck me,” he said. 

“Yeah?” Louis asked, and Harry nodded.

“Yeah.” And Louis was the one to come undone, groaning as he picked up speed, and it hurt but it was perfect and Harry bit his lip and let Louis fuck him like he promised, power and motion and heat. Harry was impossibly full and he loved the feeling and he wanted nothing more than to feel Louis deep inside him for as long as he possibly could. Louis bucked his hips over and over and the bed began to creak to the beat of Louis’s strangled sighs. 

“Fuck,” Louis whimpered. He was not purring now, losing the power he had over Harry as he lost himself and Harry knew the feeling well. His voice was ragged as he cried Harry’s name and Harry gasped out loud the moment Louis thrusting inside him sent a wave of heat blooming in his stomach. It was wild and it was new and Harry was going to fucking cum like this, on his knees with his ass in the air without even _touching_ himself. And the idea did not seem so crazy anymore as Louis hit something inside him that sent such a rush of pleasure through his whole fucking body that his vision dimmed at the edges as he cried out. 

“You like that, baby?” Louis cooed, and maybe Harry thought Louis was losing it too soon; maybe Louis was just getting started. 

“Yeah,” Harry replied. He was shocked at the high tilt of his voice, rising an octave as he fought a wave of pleasure that seeped into his veins like a drug. 

“Good.” Louis thrust harder and Harry whimpered again, swearing under his breath every filthy word he knew. It was too much; who knew something like this could feel so fucking good and perfect and perfectly all right? Louis was heat and Louis was glory and when he thrust again Harry bit down on his arm again to try and stem the flow of dirty words that spilled from his slack mouth. It didn’t work and Harry could hear the smirk returning to Louis’s voice as he said, “Fucking moan for me, baby. Moan for me.” 

And Harry did. He did and he did and Louis said, 

“I love you; I love you,” and Harry was going to fall to pieces and Louis lapped up every moment, filling Harry up and leaning his sweaty chest on Harry’s back to kiss the notches in his spine. His lips tickled Harry and he shivered despite the heat everywhere (in his gut and in his cock and in his mouth as he bit at his arm to keep from screaming) and Louis smiled into his skin and fucked Harry like the goddamn world was ending all around them. (If it had Harry would have never, ever noticed.) And Louis whined, he fucking whined, sounding wrecked and ragged, and as he whimpered Harry felt the knot in his stomach rising and rising and nothing else mattered except for Louis, deep inside Harry in every way imaginable (he was in his blood, he was in his veins). 

“I love you,” Louis moaned, and Harry closed his eyes as each desperate thrust brought him closer and closer to the edge. Never would he have thought he could have something this fucking good (his forever) and as Louis thrust into him he let out a moan to rival Louis’s, dirty and hungry and loud. “Moan for me,” Louis breathed once more, and Harry did. He obeyed, wanting to cry into his pillow from the overwhelming beauty of it all, but he didn’t. He moaned, grinding his hips back into Louis to get as much of him as possible, and Louis choked and he fell silent and Harry couldn’t breathe as his orgasm hit him like a goddamn truck. With a wild, desperate sound Harry would never admit to making he came into the sheets, filthy and tired and spent. 

“Fuck,” Louis cried. “Fuck, baby, so…good.” He dropped his forehead to Harry’s back and Harry didn’t have time to recover from the orgasm that shook every tired limb before Louis slammed their bodies together again and again, low whimpers slipping from him, his lips at Harry’s spine. “Fuck,” Louis whimpered once more, and Harry buried his face in his arms as Louis came, falling to pieces deep inside Harry. (It was strange and it was fucking beautiful, Louis turning graceless and limp as his moaning was almost filthy enough to make Harry hard again.) 

“Fuck,” Louis barked, and slowly, carefully he pulled out. Harry cried out with no idea why; it didn’t hurt, not anymore, but the moment Louis slipped from him he missed the fullness, he missed the way Louis held him, and he wanted it back. He heard Louis slip out of the spent condom, dropping it for the moment to the floor, and he waited for the feel of Louis’s skin on his. Together they crashed onto the bed, Harry’s knees and his arms crying out in pain, and Louis collapsed at his side. His hair was slicked back with sweat, his pupils fucking blown out wide, and his beautiful fucking lips were parted and he darted his tongue out to lap sweat from his lip and he was the prettiest goddamn thing Harry had ever seen and he was all his. 

“I missed your face,” Harry said, shocked he could find his voice, and as Louis fought for breath he smirked, knowing full well the effect his lopsided grin had on Harry. 

“Hey now,” Louis said. “Don’t go falling in love with me just because…fuck.” His eyes rolled back for a moment, a shudder rolling through him as he tried to come down, and when he managed to refocus his eyes on Harry he sighed. “Just because I’m the first man to fuck you like that.”

“You look pretty damn fucked yourself,” Harry replied. 

“Fuck off.” Louis threw his arm over Harry, his skin slick with sweat, and his cheeks were rosy and his lips red.

“You fuck off.” Harry nuzzled close to Louis’s chest without meaning to, the concept of lying here forever and cuddling together against the cold foreign to Harry but one he was willing to learn. Louis exhaled, long and slow, and he rolled over to face the ceiling, taking Harry with him. Harry dropped his head onto Louis’s chest and did not tell how desperately he missed Louis deep inside him. (He did not tell Louis a lot of things; how deeply he was in love with him at the top of the list.) Harry splayed his fingers over Louis’s chest and tried to remember how to draw breath of his own as Louis breathed beneath him. With lazy strokes Louis brushed his fingers along Harry’s shoulder and he sighed and Harry pinched at his nipple until he slapped his hand away. 

For a long moment they languished together, their legs tangled up and Harry unable to take his hand from Louis’s skin. He was never, ever going to get enough. He was beautiful and warm and he was Harry’s. He was perfect. He was gorgeous. (Harry was full of words when he wrote thoughts down on paper but coming down from an orgasm he was useless, reduced to monosyllabic words that circled around his fuzzy head.) 

And Louis spoke for him and he pressed a kiss into Harry’s sweat dampened hair and he said, “Merry Christmas, Harry.” And that was okay because that was all that mattered and all at once Harry remembered how to breathe and he said, 

“Happy Birthday, Lou.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Major shout-out to fricktorfuentes for all the support when I desperately needed it. <3
> 
> There's so much left to go; thank you thank you for all the readers who are in it til the end. 
> 
> As always, please message me on tumblr at ourl0veisgod with anything at all.


	16. Chapter 16

With New Year’s Eve came the return of The Troves and the roadies and Sophia to Manhattan to spend the night in Harry and Louis’s hotel room. Zayn looked like he had gained ten desperately needed pounds over the week since Harry had seen him last and he grabbed Harry by the head as he arrived and kissed him hard on one cheek. 

“Hey now,” Harry said, wiping spit from his face with the sleeve of the red wool sweater Sophia had gifted him for Christmas. “I’m spoken for.”

“I can’t help it,” Zayn beamed. “I’m just happy to see you looking so damn good.”

“Hey! He said he was spoken for!” Louis handed Zayn a flute of bubbling pink champagne and he took it, leaning down to give Louis his own sloppy kiss. Louis laughed and shoved him away, so small as he craned his neck to look up at Zayn and maybe Harry was meant to be happy and he did not have to be afraid of it slipping through his fingers anymore. (It was hard to believe he deserved the life he led as one by one his best friends arrived and unwound scarves from their necks and pulled Harry into tight hugs like they had not seen him in years.) Louis passed out glasses of champagne and turned up the volume of Carson Daly on TV and Harry had to catch him by the hips and kiss him silly to get him to stop running around trying to make sure everyone was comfortable. 

“They’re fine,” Harry breathed against Louis’s lips. “Me, on the other hand…I need you to do me a favor.”

“What’s that?” Louis asked, his own glass of champagne nearly splashing on the floor as he laughed, swept up in Harry’s arms. 

“I need you to sit on my lap and whisper sweet filthy nothings into my ear until we’re both so horny we can’t see straight.” And when he released Louis he took a long gulp of his champagne, blushing like a love struck teenager, and it looked so damn good on him. 

“Sounds good to me,” Louis said, completely breathless, and Harry tugged him to the couch and collapsed with him in his lap right in between Niall and Liam. Harry kissed Louis as hard as he could and Liam began to laugh at his side. 

“If you two can’t be civilized at least until we leave I’m going to need a lot more champagne,” Liam said, and Louis tossed his head back to laugh in reply. 

“Drink all you want,” Harry said, already buzzing with want as Louis grinded gently in his lap. “It won’t make your burning jealousy go away.” And Liam laughed and so did Niall and Zayn handed Liam the whole damn bottle of champagne and all three of the laughing boys poured themselves another glass. Louis took the bottle and tipped it to his lips and the boys groaned as he rolled his tongue over the lip of the bottle and mimed an obscene, sloppy blowjob. 

“Boys,” Sophia said from somewhere behind them on the couch, and Harry could hear the roll of her eyes in her voice as she scoffed at their behavior. But she loved them and she loved this or why else would she be here? And her hand caught up in Harry’s hair and she pulled his head back to make him look upside down at her. Harry was used to going limp at Louis’s touch and he let Sophia yank his head back and as he caught sight of the frown marring her face Harry asked her,

“What’s wrong?” 

“Come here,” she said. 

“What’s wrong?” Harry repeated, catching Louis’s attention, and Sophia shook her head and backed away instead of replying. “Get up,” Harry said, and Louis struggled to his feet and he followed Harry as he followed Sophia out into the hall. She held the door open with her shoe to keep it from locking behind them, the hall garishly white and far too quiet after the comfort and dim light of the room. 

“What’s wrong?” Harry said once more. (Maybe this was all about to come crashing down around him; maybe now he was at the point where he should turn around and run.)

Sophia looked terrified as she fiddled with her phone and Harry tried to see the screen but she tilted it away from him. “Before I tell you,” she said, “just know that I am so, so sorry.”

“Sorry?” Harry asked. He took one step towards her and she took one step back, nearly falling over as she forgot she had her foot in the door. “For what?”

“For Pilot’s Poison,” she whimpered, and her lip quivered and Harry felt the strength leave his knees. 

“Sophia,” Harry breathed. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s bullshit,” she cried. “It’s all fucking bullshit but it’s out there and we can’t take it back and I am so, so, so sorry.” And if she had had this news when she arrived she was more skilled at keeping painful secrets than Harry could have imagined. She wrung her hands, phone screen bright and glaring, and when she lowered it and scrolled through whatever it was that was causing her panic Harry began to lose his composure.

“Tell me!” he barked, Louis’s hand curling into the fabric of his sweater. When he glanced at Louis he looked stricken, scared of whatever it was Sophia was terrified of spilling. 

“It’s Michael,” she cried. “Okay? He had this…this tell all with some shit punk rock rag and it’s…Harry, it’s awful.” She buried her face in her hands and her phone slipped through, Louis grabbing for it and catching it mid-air and pocketing it as he moved to comfort her. 

“Soph, whatever it is he said, it’s not your fault,” Louis told her. He was tipsy, cheeks red, but he was gentle and he was good and she tried to smile as he wrapped an arm around her shoulders. 

“What did he say?” Harry asked. (He must have done something terrible if Sophia was falling to pieces like this; she fell apart for nothing less than earth shattering pain.) 

“None of it is true,” Sophia said. “None of it.” She was fierce and she would go to the ends of the earth to protect Harry, to protect them all, and Harry grabbed for her phone from the pocket of Louis’s jeans and opened up the article before either of them could stop him. (They could stop protecting him for a goddamn moment; he was not going to break over some piss poor excuse for a rock band.) 

The article was titled, “Secret Life of an American Rock Band” and Harry almost laughed out loud, the absurdity of it all almost too much to bear. “Guitarist Michael Clifford of Diamante Records’ newest, hottest band, Pilot’s Poison, speaks up about the fight that almost cost him his career,” the article began. Louis stood on his tiptoes at Harry’s side to read over his shoulder, all signs of goofy glee gone as he gnawed at his lip with his brow furrowed. Sophia hovered over them, waiting for Harry to explode, but he was not going to. Not this time. He was fine. This was fine. 

“Michael Clifford, in his first interview since being signed to Diamante Records at the tender age of twenty-one, sits in a dressing room with his name on the door as he waits curled up in a chair for Pilot’s Poison to play a string of late night television performances,” the interview began. Harry had always hated the way music magazines painted pictures, drawing bands and singers and tortured souls as beautiful, perfect creatures who were untouchable, inhuman, and larger than life. It was not true, it was ridiculous, and it gave idiots like Michael Clifford (and Harry, years ago) massive fucking heads. Harry read on and he tried to ignore the way he could see his heartbeat in black spots across his vision. 

“Michael is reluctant at first to speak of the band that gave him his big break, but after a glass or two of rum he begins to open up. ‘I really couldn’t believe the way The Troves behaved around each other,’ Michael says, sipping his drink in his chair. ‘They worship Harry Styles and that’s not ever how I want to be. I’m not here to make it big using his name but I don’t want to be quiet about this, either. His bandmates…it’s not an arrangement I could ever live with. They kiss the ground he walks on and it’s fucking scary, to be honest. I don’t think they even know they do it. It’s gross. And I wanted to tell them that. But I didn’t. And somehow they got it into their heads that I was a threat, that I was going to hurt them or something, and they attacked me.’ Here Michael shows me the scar on the bridge of his nose, the fine white line he claims was given to him by Zayn Malik, guitarist and short-tempered spokesperson for The Troves.”

“What the fuck,” Harry breathed out loud, and Sophia made a soft noise like a sob. 

“I know,” she whimpered. “Give it back, I don’t want you to read the rest.” She tried to take her phone but Harry spun on his heels away from her, Louis following him. 

“This little fucking shit thinks he knows so much,” Harry snapped, jerking the phone from Sophia’s searching hands. “I’m fine, let me finish.” He was angry, angrier than he could remember being even as he lay on the floor backstage and watched Zayn beat the life from Michael Clifford. This kid was a lowlife, intent on doing exactly what he said he did not set out to do, making a name for himself by lying viciously about the only band to give them a shot. 

“Are you okay?” Louis asked him as he read on, and Harry nodded and insisted he was fine. He was not going to break. Michael Clifford did not deserve the fucking energy it would take to give in to the anger bubbling in his stomach. 

“I’m fine.” And Michael called Harry scum; he painted an ugly picture of a band scared to death of their front man and his violence, his drug addiction, and the broken, loyal twink who never left his side. Harry made a motion to throw the phone across the room the moment Michael fucking Clifford had the nerve to mention Louis (“He’s seriously damaged, from what I’ve seen, to cling to Harry the way he does. The poor kid is as lost in Harry as I was before I met him.”) and Louis grabbed his arm to stop him as Sophia began to cry.

“I told you,” she said. “I told you; he’s vile.”

“I’m going to kill him,” Harry replied. Louis held on to his arm and he ripped it from his grasp, breathing hard through his nose as he said, “Let me go; I’m going to fucking kill him.” Let the stupid kid wax poetic about the instable menace that Harry knew he was. Harry didn’t care anymore; he didn’t have it in him. But Michael had fucked up big time the second he let Louis’s name fall from his stupid fucking mouth. It was over. He was a dead man. And Harry was going to make him pay if it was the last thing he did.

“What,” Louis asked, “right now? Calm down, Harry, please…”

“Did you see what he called you?” Harry asked, in disbelief that Sophia and Louis were not on his side. He looked between them, Sophia with tears gleaming in her eyes (he did that too her way too fucking much and somewhere it had to end) and Louis trying to pull Harry to him and calm him down. 

“I saw,” Louis said, face hard. “I fucking saw, baby, but it’s not like I haven’t been called worse. It’s not like you haven’t.” And it was true; Zayn had screamed at him a word Harry would never, ever say, but it was different and Louis knew it and Michael Clifford had never met anyone like Harry fucking Styles. 

“Tell them the truth,” Harry said. “The fucking rags, tell them what he did to me; I don’t care who knows.”

“That won’t make this go away,” Louis protested, and he was fucking gorgeous as he stood between Harry and Sophia, just drunk enough on expensive champagne to be bleary eyed and a little bit slow. Harry wanted him to calm him down, put his hands all over him, but he couldn’t think with the image of Michael’s smug, self-important face stuck in his head. 

“I quit,” Sophia cried, and Harry jerked his head up from staring down at Louis, lips falling open, at the same moment Louis did. 

“What?” Harry asked. 

“I quit,” she wailed, throwing her hands up. “I’m not good enough, I was never good enough, and look at what happened because I didn’t take charge and end them like I could have, like I wanted to…” And the fight left Harry’s body so fast it was almost painful as he threw his arms around Sophia and crushed her tiny frame to his chest. She always blamed herself; everyone always fucking blamed themselves, but it was no one but Harry who ever did wrong by anyone else. He was the problem; he was the broken record, and he could try to piece them together one by one but he was always going to leave them with a few missing pieces. Sophia cried limp in his arms, her tears on the front of his sweater, and Louis stood behind her and put one gentle hand on her shoulder and she stiffened, trying hard to stem the flow of tears as best she could. 

“I’m so sorry,” Sophia cried. “I should have done a better job by you; I don’t deserve you.” 

“Oh, fuck off,” Harry said, and Sophia was so shocked she hiccupped and fell silent, pulling away from his chest and looking hard up at him. 

“I love you, you blubbering mess,” Harry tried to tease, and Sophia blinked and gaped up at him like a fish as he dabbed away her tears with his thumbs and got mascara all over his skin. “Stop trying to run away from me.” Sophia stammered, cheeks pink, but Harry shushed her and she fell silent. The fight always left him when it was Sophia who was in danger of falling apart and for that Harry was glad. He would do anything in the world to protect her just like she would for him and he did not tell her as he pinched her nose and made her laugh through her tears that he was probably going to rip Michael’s head from his body the first chance he got. 

“Come on,” Harry said to his best boy and his best girl. “Let’s ask the guys what they think about all of this shit.” And Harry passed Sophia’s phone around and let The Troves guffaw and laugh over the idiocy of the interviewer who revered him and of Michael Clifford himself as his ego inflated thanks to the magazine article pulling his dick. 

“’I’m very serious about my craft,’” Zayn said, standing precariously perched on the top of the couch with one hand on his chest and the other reading from the phone as he acted out quotes from Michael Clifford. “’Nothing in the world is more important to me than art.’ Yeah, except for betraying people, you fucking idiot!” Niall and Liam sat together in a chair, Niall in Liam’s lap, the both of them almost too drunk to sit without wobbling. They laughed hard enough to nearly spill on top of each other out of their chair as Zayn put a hand to his forehead and imitated the interviewer swooning over Michael. 

“Suck my dick, Michael,” Zayn fawned, bucking his hips and making Sophia bury her face in her hands as she pretended she was not laughing just as hard as the rest of them. When Zayn grabbed at his crotch through his jeans and made obscene choking noises, Eleanor and Sophia hit their backs simultaneously on the wall as they laughed, banging into each other and laughing even harder. 

“Work it, babe!” Eleanor cried, cupping her hands around her mouth so Zayn could hear her over Harry and Louis whooping and cheering Zayn on. 

“What’s that?” Zayn asked. “You want me to suck _your_ dick? Well, don’t mind if I do!” And Zayn bent at the waist and tried to take a bow as the room erupted in cheers, but he slipped and fell backwards off the couch, landing in a heap on the carpet, and Nick and Jeff helped him up as he shook his head and said, “I’m okay!” And if no one was going to let this get to them Harry wasn’t, either. He was okay; they were okay. This was fine. 

Carson Daly blathered on TV and somebody knocked on their door and asked for the second time if they could please keep it down just a little and Louis poured the poor tired bellman a glass of champagne that he politely refused. He told them to have a good night and Louis assured him they would quiet down, just a little, and the man gave a tired wave as Louis closed and locked the door. In one gulp he swallowed the champagne from the glass in his hand and they were running low but that was okay. If Louis was any drunker he would be on the floor. (As it was he could not keep his hands off Harry, sliding both hands under his shirt and trying to nip at his ear.) Harry sat in front of the TV at ten minutes to midnight and he pulled Louis into his lap and as the minutes ticked down the rest of The Troves gathered to join Harry on the couch. Niall and Liam sat side by side next to Harry and Eleanor and Sophia sat perched on opposite arms of the couch and Nick and Jeff sat on the floor at Harry’s feet. 

“What’s your resolution this year, baby?” Louis asked in Harry’s ear. And it was funny and just a little bit ridiculous; Harry had not made a New Year’s resolution since he was a teenager, the last one being _“become world famous by the time I’m twenty-five”_. And with that accomplished Harry came up with nothing, shrugging and asking Louis,

“What’s yours?” 

And Louis dragged his tongue up Harry’s throat, hot and wet, and he whispered huskily, “To fuck you stupid in every position imaginable.” Harry squirmed, Louis so fucking hot he could die, and Eleanor sat way too close for Harry to reply but Louis had no such qualms as he let absolute filth drip from his mouth. “I’m going to make you cum so fucking hard you can’t remember your name,” Louis promised at five minutes to midnight. 

“Yeah?” Harry purred. Louis was a filthy drunk and he nodded and he bit Harry’s ear and it hurt but it was okay. It was all right. 

With two minutes to go before a new year began Harry watched the crowd in Times Square on TV, not even a mile from where they sat squished together on the sofa. It was frigid out there and Harry did not envy the people outside one bit. In here it was warm and in here it smelled like liquor and boy and cinnamon and being here was all that Harry could have ever wished for. 

(Maybe this year would be different; maybe he should make a resolution this time, to be better at deserving this life if nothing else.)

With one minute to go every warm body in the room was tensed up, Louis purring like a kitten in Harry’s lap as he licked at his throat and pressed his teeth to his skin. 

“I think this is going to be a good year,” Zayn said from his spot behind the couch, and he buried his hand in Harry’s hair and pulled. 

“Yeah?” Harry asked. “I think so, too.” And it was thirty seconds to go, then twenty, then ten. And The Troves stood up and so did Sophia and so did the roadies and Harry tumbled Louis out of his lap as he stood, too, and as the ball fell in Times Square Harry could hear the roar of the crowd outside the window as well as he could hear it blaring from the TV. It was five seconds to go, and then three, and Harry held his breath as the seconds ticked down and then all at once the room exploded with noise, the band cheering and whooping and throwing back glasses full of champagne. 

And Louis threw his arms around Harry, nearly taking out his eye with his elbow, and he kissed him so passionately Harry saw stars. The stubble on his face stung at Harry’s lips and he wouldn’t have it any other way. He wrapped his arms around Louis and picked him up off the ground and Louis wrapped his legs around Harry as he spun them around, Louis’s hands on his cheeks and his tongue tasting like candy and alcohol. 

“I love you,” Louis said, Harry’s hands holding him up under his thighs. “I love you.” 

“I love you, too,” Harry told him. And at their side Nick dipped Eleanor to the ground and kissed her on the mouth, making her blush so deeply she matched the red lights from stop lights outside. Niall and Liam hugged tight enough to make one another gasp for air and this was wild, a lifetime away from the boys who had given up on each other. 

(But that was last year, now, wasn’t it?)

Harry set Louis back down on the ground and he stood on his tiptoes to nip at Harry’s earlobe, smug and happy and so drunk he could hardly stand. One by one Harry’s best friends (the only family he was ever going to need) left with promises of seeing him bright and early on January 2nd. Harry was scared, the fear of beginning again never leaving him, but he smiled and he hugged each tipsy person as they walked out the door. The tour bus was to pick them up at ten in the morning, Sophia told him for the fifth time, and Harry nodded and told her he knew and she kissed him and she walked away with Eleanor on her arm. 

(The Troves owed London a hell of an apology and London was where they were going to start the last leg of the tour, the next three months full of shows in more countries than Harry could recall. But it was okay; he was all right, he had his best boy at his side and nothing else mattered.)

Harry and Louis had one more day to themselves, one day with nothing planned except the packing they should have begun days ago. But that was okay; it was all right. They would get it done and they would climb up into the tour bus and ride to the airport and head once again to rainy, icy London. 

Zayn was the last to leave and he told Harry he was sorry about Michael and sorry about a lot of things and Harry asked him again if he needed a ride home because he was so drunk he leaned on the doorframe for support but he shook his head. “I’ll get a cab,” he said. “Don’t worry about me.” And then he was gone and Louis was trying to clean up glasses and confetti but he was too drunk and he fell into the couch, laughing to himself at his own clumsiness. Harry scooped him into his arms and carried him to bed and late, late, late into the night they kissed lazily under the covers and touched each other all over, in no rush at all. And it was miraculous, how lucky Harry was, and maybe he was a sucker for romance or maybe just a sucker for Louis, but in any case Harry hushed him as he tried to bite and nip and have rough, careless sex. Harry made love to Louis, slow and gentle as he could, and Louis was beautiful and Louis was loud and again and again their bodies crashed together like they were made to be that way.

It was dawn of the last day they had alone together by the time Harry let Louis relax into sleep, and it was morning by the time Harry dozed off, happier than he could have ever imagined being. 

He was okay. He was okay. 

 

Harry awoke at noon on January 2nd, garish white light spilling in through the window. In less than twenty-four hours they would be back in London and back on the road and it was getting harder and harder to pretend he was not scared out of his mind once again. Louis breathed lightly beside him, still sound asleep. Harry turned his head on his pillow to marvel at Louis’s face and the way the sunlight cast shadows on his cheekbones and his parted lips. Unable to help himself Harry reached out, his fingers brushing the rope painted on Louis’s skin. It was a miracle, a goddamn blessing that Louis had chosen him. 

(In another life, baby, I would marry you any damn day of the week.)

The last time Louis was drunk enough to weave where he stood he had tried to say goodbye. And Harry was cruel when he wanted to be and he had taken the goodbye from him when it slipped his mind in the morning. But nothing was going to make him give it to Louis now. They belonged to each other in this life just as much as they did in any other imaginable reality, wherever they were. If Louis was born in California and Harry in Alaska they would have found each other on a road trip somewhere in between. If Harry was a baker and Louis an early morning talk show host they would have collided as Louis searched for the perfect chocolate chip muffin for breakfast. If Harry was destined to die Louis would have been the boy who carried flowers to hospice patients and their paths would have crossed just in time to fall in love.

No matter what, Harry belonged to Louis and nothing in any world could ever erase the rope from Louis’s skin. Harry leaned in close and he pressed his lips to Louis’s shoulder, ghosting his hand up from his newest tattoo to the crook of his elbow. Louis stirred but did not wake up and Harry kissed him again, pressing his nose into Louis’s skin, aching to narrow his world to nothing but Louis, Louis, Louis. Harry walked his fingers down to the bird on Louis’s forearm and the lyrics in script just below it and Harry was written all over Louis and he belonged to Harry before he even knew him. 

(They were meant to be together, born to fall into each other, and it was lovely and warm and perfect as Harry pressed his lips to Louis’s bare shoulder again and again.) 

Harry watched his beautiful boy sleep and he wanted to kiss him and wake him up for slow, lazy morning sex but more than anything he wanted to stretch this moment into infinity, knotting it up like the tattoo of a rope on Louis’s arm. He wanted to listen to Louis breathe and pretend they did not have to once again pack up the perfect little life they built in Manhattan. Later they would pack up shoes and socks and the box of condoms in the nightstand and the cough drops Harry collected like loose change in the pockets of all his jeans. Later they would stow away Louis’s leather pants and Harry’s dirty old Chucks, changing into their winter coats for the long trip to London. But for now not one of those things mattered. None of it could touch Harry as he languished in bed and contemplated never getting up again. The dirty politics of the music business and shitty magazines did not matter one bit, and neither did the way Michael Clifford pretended he knew it all. 

Nothing else mattered but Louis and the smell of him and the way his hair looked soft on his pillow as he slept. Just to be sure Harry reached out and touched it, running his hand through Louis’s messy locks carefully so he did not wake him. But Louis was a light sleeper and he caught Harry’s hand with his own and drew Harry’s knuckles to his mouth. He pressed kisses into each of Harry’s knuckles before blearily opening his blue, blue eyes and breathing, 

“Good morning.”

“Good afternoon,” Harry corrected, pretending he was not lost in Louis’s touch as he nipped with gentle teeth at Harry’s hand. 

“Whatever,” Louis smiled. He smiled and the world stopped for him and Harry kissed him on the eye, making him chuckle and squirm away. “Is it time to get up yet?” Louis asked.

“Not yet,” Harry replied. The lazy smile Louis offered him was lovely enough to make Harry catch his breath as he said,

“Good. So I can have you for myself for a little while longer.”

“I’m all yours all the time.”

“True,” Louis smiled. “But once we’re back on the road I can’t fuck you ‘til you cry; the boys might hear and then you’ll never hear the end of it.” Harry swatted at the hand that had begun creeping into Harry’s underwear but Louis made a soft noise of protest and touched him, fingers stroking with lazy motions as he beamed. 

“We don’t really have much time,” Harry told Louis, closing his eyes into his gentle touch. “We have to meet Soph at…at…” He fell silent, completely distracted by the way Louis tightened his hand around him, and Louis smirked. He had him; he had him. And he knew it.

“What were you saying, babe?” Louis asked, playing innocent. 

“Fuck off,” Harry replied. Louis stroked him with the hand bearing his thick golden ring and it was the only part of him still cold as he ran his hand up and down the length of Harry. Louis chuckled; he fucking loved this. He loved to drive Harry wild and Harry supposed he understood. He loved the feeling himself. But he whined as Louis stroked him, slow and careful, and when he arched his back off the bed Louis released him.

“Hey,” Harry cried out in protest. He opened his eyes and turned his head to face Louis and he smiled wide enough to make the sun rise and set on him. 

“Hey yourself,” Louis teased. 

“Fuck me,” Harry ordered, and Louis did not hesitate as he rolled over and pinned Harry to the bed by his wrists and his hips. 

“Ask me,” Louis replied. His hair was a mess, cowlicks around his ears and in the back, and without a doubt in his mind Harry knew he was the most perfect creature in the whole fucking messy world. And he was his and nothing was going to ever change that. “What?” Louis asked as Harry stared, dazed, at him instead of replying. 

But Harry could be good and Harry obeyed and he said, “Marry me.” And with that Louis surged forward to kiss him hard enough to take his breath away for the millionth time and as Louis cried out deep inside Harry he threw his head back to the ceiling and cried his name more times than he could count. 

 

Sophia’s tight hug, the tour bus, The Troves beaming as they were reunited after the last long break they would get until the very end of the tour in March, and the airport all passed by in a blur as Harry and Louis were handed off from Sophia to security to baggage check to the airplane and into their seats in a daze. London bound, Harry was coiled up like a spring, nervous and gnawing at his fingernails as Louis buckled him into his seat. 

“You’re okay,” Louis told him, and as long as he was going to say it Harry was going to believe him. He was right, he was always right, and he had chosen to be okay for so long that another few months was going to be nothing. He could do this. He owed London shows now, falling off the face of the earth the last time he was there, and he was determined to make this leg of the tour the best shows London had ever seen from him. 

(The last night of the tour was back home, back at Madison fucking Square Garden thanks to Sophia, on March 28th. And Harry was okay and the fear gnawing at him was not because of the crowd anymore. It was because of the promise The Troves had made to him at the beginning of the tour; after Madison Square Garden…they were done.)

Harry was distracted and Louis knew, flipping through an in-flight magazine and giving Harry some space that Harry did not want. The more time he had to himself to think the worse his fear became, and he dropped his head onto Louis’s shoulder to draw some comfort from the steady warmth of him. 

“You okay, baby?” Louis asked, kissing Harry on the top of his head (Sophia had cried out in pain when she saw he had yet to cut his hair and she pulled at his curls and scowled but she forgave him soon enough). 

“I’m fine,” he said. 

“I know you are,” Louis replied. He pressed kisses into Harry’s hair and he wanted to purr like a cat and curl up in his lap like a Labrador that thought it was a lap dog. But he didn’t. He wanted to tell Louis the truth; he was terrified. But he didn’t. He was not weak, not anymore, and he was not going to put the burden of all his stupid fears on Louis or anyone else as long as he could help it. Taking the stage would be easy. Getting off it would be the hard part. Stepping down and taking a (last) bow and wondering if he was ever going to get to do it again.

(Because they were deadly serious back in the summer, somber as they told Harry they were done. Things had changed; everything had changed, but there was something nagging at Harry as he watched them smile and laugh in the seats all around him. They had wanted out. They had wanted to stop. What would he do if they still did?)

“What are you scared of?” Louis asked him in a whisper, his hand curling around the fabric of Harry’s sleeve. 

“Nothing,” Harry replied. 

“That’s okay,” Louis said with another kiss into Harry’s messy hair. “I’ll be here when you decide you need help.” And it was good and Louis was good but Harry shook his head and closed his eyes against the sky as the plane began to tilt up towards the sun. 

(When Harry was scared everything fell apart. But he was not going to let that happen; not this time.)

The flight to London was shorter than Harry remembered, the plane pointing down and his ears popping painfully as they touched down on the tarmac and rolled to a stop. Louis opened and closed his mouth, grimacing as he popped his own ears, and his gaping turned into a yawn and his eyes closed, his head dropping onto Harry’s shoulder as they waited to be released into the frozen London air. Harry peered outside the fogged up window of the airplane and saw just what he expected; it was cloudy, dreary and dark in the starless London night. Harry braced himself for the cold, buttoning up his gray wool coat, and as they stood and walked to the front of the plane towards the familiar airport

(the last time he was here he had penned _Of the Color of the Sky_ , falling in love for the very first time)

Harry reached around Louis and buttoned up his coat, too. 

“Thank you, sweetheart,” Louis cooed, and Zayn pretended to throw up behind them. Niall silenced him by tripping him and he fell forward into Harry, nearly knocking them off the plane, and Sophia scolded them gently and led them out to baggage claim.

“You boys are a menace,” she said for the hundredth time, and Harry knew it. He clapped her on the back and she stumbled into Eleanor, who caught her and stuck her tongue out at Harry. 

“She’s right!” Eleanor teased. Jeff caught her by the neck and dug his knuckles into her hair, making her cry out in pain and throw him unceremoniously to the airport floor. 

“You’re stronger than I thought!” Jeff laughed as she stuck out one hand and helped him up, fixing her hair with her other hand. 

“Nah,” she smiled. “You’re just weaker.” Jeff shoved her and she leapt up onto his back, digging her heels into his hips to make him walk as he carried her through the airport. And Harry watched the band and the roadies and Sophia come together as one once more, for the hundredth time, and he fell in love with the life he led all over again. 

(It was never going to get old, the camaraderie and the friendship being a part of this thing bigger than him gave Harry.)

“All right, put her down,” Sophia ordered as they scooped up their bags and Jeff carried his and Eleanor’s in one hand.

“No,” Eleanor pleaded. “I’m tired and he loves me; let him do it.” When Jeff agreed with her with a shrug Sophia laughed, tension easing from her body, as she rolled her eyes and led them from the airport out into the night. They were back in the city, back in the icy cold, but they were not returning to the hotel they shared the last time. Sophia had not asked Harry before changing their hotel and he was grateful; she knew without asking that he would do anything to never step foot in the hotel he lost his life in ever again. 

As his breath pulled away from him into the night Harry tossed his head back and watched the sky where the stars should be. Louis caught him staring and he mimicked him, closing his eyes against the night. They waited at the curb with their bags in hand for a cab Sophia was busy trying to hail and Louis was warm, warm, warm as he pressed into Harry’s side. Harry leaned into him and they stood together in the cold, two bodies that belonged together like puzzle pieces, and a cab pulled up where they stood on the sidewalk and one by one they climbed inside. Louis nuzzled into Harry’s neck in the cab, warm, warm, warm, and all at once Harry was exhausted as he yearned for the bed waiting for him in their new hotel. 

“We have sound check at four o’clock tomorrow,” Sophia told them as they dragged their bags from the trunk at the hotel and stood in a yawning circle around her. “Please sleep until then; I won’t be snapped at by grumpy boys. Got it?” They nodded and she waved them away and in pairs and threes and fours they headed upstairs to their newest temporary homes. Louis nipped at Harry’s ear in the elevator, his hands warm even as his cold nose pressed into Harry’s cheek. His bag hit the elevator floor and so did Harry’s as their cold lips collided. 

“Love you,” Louis breathed. “Love you, I love you.” And there was nothing Harry could do but drag Louis as close to him as possible and kiss him with all he was worth. 

(He loved him, he loved him, and he was going to spend the rest of his fucking life making sure he damn well knew it.)

The elevator opened and they spilled out into the hall, Louis barely able to grab for his bag before Harry slammed him with a thunk into the striped wallpaper on the opposite wall. 

“Fuck,” Louis barked, and Harry felt much the same. He bit down hard on Louis’s lip and he went limp under Harry’s hands, a sharp whimper escaping him as he fumbled for the room key he held to room 723. 

“Give it to me,” Harry ordered, and Louis slipped the key into his hand and he walked away towards the room, leaving Louis gasping for breath up against the wall. After a long moment Harry heard him begin to follow. Already Harry was hard, burning with want, and the moment he got to the door of their room he threw it open and held the door for Louis to step inside. He tossed his own bag and Louis tossed his into the closet and then they were a mess of tangled up limbs in the dark, crying out each other’s names and pulling off every bit of clothing they could find. Harry unbuttoned Louis’s coat and then tore off his sweater, Louis breathing hard as he wrestled with Harry’s belt buckle. 

“Want you,” Louis breathed, “so fucking bad.”

“I know,” Harry managed. “I know, I know.” He yanked Louis’s shirt up over his head and even in the dim light coming from street lamps outside Harry could see the muscles in his chest and in his stomach as he panted, lips parted, and he reached for Harry and Harry reached back. Harry slammed him again into the wall, the back of his head hitting a picture frame, and he cried out in pain. “You okay?” Harry asked, but Louis crushed his mouth to Harry’s and said,

“Fine, fine.” Harry’s jeans hit the floor and he tripped over his shoes, the two of them nearly tumbling to the carpet. Louis tried to chuckle but with one hand Harry silenced him, groping for him through his jeans. And he was hard, too, complacent in Harry’s hands, and they fell into the bedroom and tumbled together onto the bed. This one was loud and Harry could already hear his band now, mocking the noises he was about to make when they saw him tomorrow afternoon, but he didn’t care. It didn’t fucking matter; all that mattered was the sweet taste of Louis’s lips and the heat of every inch of his skin. 

“Love you,” Louis cooed as Harry kissed his way down Louis’s stomach. 

“I know,” Harry replied. He kissed him and he kissed him because words were not always enough, and the bed creaked beneath them and the rest of the world fell away and Louis Tomlinson was all that fucking mattered. Harry was all right with that. It was okay; Louis was the stars that should have been gleaming high above London. And as they rocked together under the covers and Louis said, “I love you,” over and over again, Harry told him the only thing he could and he said,

“I love you, too.”

 

And just like always morning came too soon. Harry made coffee in the machine by the front door of their room (in essence each and every hotel room was exactly the same) as Louis lolled in bed, his head hanging over the side so his face hung upside down. He watched Harry from the bed and Harry returned with two hot cups of coffee, one black for him and one with three sugars for Louis. 

“Thank you, Hazza,” Louis said. He carefully set his mug on the carpet and stayed upside down, his hair almost touching the floor. His cheeks were red from the blood in his head and he looked stunning as always, his hands crossing over his bare chest like a vampire as his eyes slipped closed. “I’m still tired,” he breathed. He looked it, too, his entire body relaxed and slow as he lazed naked in bed. Harry could not tear his eyes from the gentle curves of his body, content to keep him like this forever, but he sipped at his coffee and told Louis he had to get up eventually. 

“I don’t think I will,” Louis said. “What if we skip sound check and you fuck me again like you did last night?” Louis grinned upside down as Harry choked on his coffee (last night Harry had used both his and Louis’s belts to tie Louis to the bedposts by his wrists and as Harry glanced now he saw the remnants of angry red welts on Louis’s skin) and finally rolled over to face Harry right side up. It did not help Harry regain his composure; he took in the curve of the small of Louis’s back as it dipped just above his ass and he missed the next thing out of Louis’s mouth. 

“What?” he asked as Louis began to laugh. 

“I said I’d let you do that to me again anytime you want,” Louis replied. He was devious, his grin widening as Harry buried his nose in his mug and felt his cheeks turn pink. He fucking knew what he was doing; Harry felt the warm beginnings of desire deep in his guts as he caught Louis’s eye. But he shook his head and said, “Drink your coffee,” and tried to keep the tremor from his voice. 

“Fuck me,” Louis replied instead of complying. 

“After,” Harry managed, “after the show.” 

“Now.” 

“Later, Lou.”

“Now.” Louis had fire in his eyes, looking up at Harry through impossibly long eyelashes, and Harry was fucking gone for him and he said,

“Fine. Now.” He dropped his coffee onto the nightstand and he buried his hands in Louis’s hair as he rolled him over, lying fully clothed on top of his blissfully warm naked body. 

“Mmm…” Louis purred, and it was all fucking over. Harry was going to lie here forever with him, skipping sound check, skipping the show, and making love to him until the world ended all around them. If that was what Louis wanted, it was his. Everything Harry had and more to give was his, and Harry pressed a desperate row of kisses down the length of Louis’s neck to his collarbone, Louis complacent in his arms. “Fuck me,” Louis breathed, and Harry was more than happy to ignore the world and do nothing but comply.

 

Sophia called Harry nine times before he finally picked up the phone. She cried his name as he dabbed hot cum from the corner of his mouth with his thumb and Louis watched with hungry eyes as he slipped it into his mouth. 

“What?” he asked Sophia, having missed whatever it was she was shouting at him for. 

“You’re late!” she cried. “Sound check? Your band? Remember?”

“I’m sorry,” Harry said even though he was not at all. They could wait; they always waited for him, but Sophia’s voice broke as she snapped at him and his heart sank as he asked her what was wrong. 

“You weren’t answering me,” she cried. “And I thought something awful might have happened.” She sounded tired and defeated and all at once Harry felt the guilt he should have felt the moment he decided to be late to his fucking job. 

“Something awful?” he asked, checking his hair for cum at Louis’s gestured suggestion. “Like what?” 

“Like you got scared again,” she said, “and you were not going to come.” 

“I’m coming,” Harry assured her. “Five minutes and I’ll be there. I’m so, so sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry,” she said. “Just get here.” And she hung up on him in a huff and he deserved it but he slipped into his shoes, forgoing socks, and he dragged a wet comb through his hair and gave up trying to make it look presentable; Eleanor was pretty good at hair and he would ask for her help backstage. 

“You look sexy using my cum as hair gel,” Louis teased, and Harry darted back to the bathroom mirror to double check his reflection. “I’m kidding,” Louis said as Harry inspected his wild hair from side to side. “You look fine.” He stood on his toes to kiss Harry hard on the mouth and he said, “Let’s get going. You have a stage to run.”

The venue looked exactly the same as Harry remembered. It was surreal to be back to say the least; he was leaps and bounds ahead of the Harry who came here nursing a ragged, bleeding heart. He was a different man and they were a different band but everything around them was exactly the same. There was a long line outside the front door of the venue and Louis offered to go around the back with Harry but he declined. He owed these kids a lot more than a show. He owed them his life for sticking around to give him another chance to give them the show of a lifetime. The least he could do was hang around for a while and sign his name over and over on limbs and papers and sneakers and tickets. 

“Harry!” the fans screamed in tandem as he neared them. With Louis at his side he made his way towards the middle of the line and dozens of hands reached for him at once. 

“How are you guys today?” Harry asked as he reached for the first pair of hands and signed the paper being pushed in his face. 

“Cold,” the girl replied as he handed her back her sheet of paper. Harry was cold as he stood with them, the winter day ten degrees at best, and Harry felt a surge of appreciation for the people who stood here for hours on end in winter coats and hats and mittens and not much else. The girl who spoke to him had white lips and her teeth chattered, a blanket wrapped around her shoulders, and Harry glanced back at Louis and then back at the crowd. 

“I’ll be right back,” he promised, but even so the crowd wailed in protest as he and Louis walked away the way they had come. 

“That used to be me,” Louis said as Harry opened up his phone and looked up the nearest bakeshop. 

“Yeah?” Harry asked. “Waiting in line all day like a crazy person? Just to see me?” The map finished loading on his phone and he held it up, looking for the right direction, and Louis laughed and said,

“Nah. I was there to see Zayn.” And he laughed harder when Harry shoved him and he nearly went sprawling on the pavement. “No,” he said, biting back his laughter. “I did some crazy things for you. I slept in the street to be the first one in line to your show at Irving Plaza back in 2010. I was seventeen and I was all alone. I slept under a blanket and it was just as cold as it is right now. I was the first one there, though, and I was front row center.” He shrugged as Harry gaped in disbelief at the words spilling from Louis like they were nothing.

“Wow,” was all Harry managed to say. 

“I know. I’ve had my eye on you for a long time, Harry Styles,” he teased. Harry pushed him again and he tripped off the sidewalk and into the street, Harry offering up his hand to help him back on the concrete. They made their way together to the bakeshop a few blocks away and as they opened the door to the tinkling of the Christmas sleigh bells still hung over the door a girl bustled out from the back and greeted them with a smile.

“What can I do for you?” she asked, and Harry rattled off an order that made her jaw drop for a moment before she composed herself and nodded. She called to someone in the back and asked for help as they worked together behind the pink plastic counter to gather up Harry’s order. And Louis leaned on Harry’s shoulder and tangled his fingers up in the back of Harry’s coat and the simple touch was one that was entirely Louis and it was all the comfort Harry needed. He was doing right by Louis and he was doing right by the band and the fans to the best of his abilities. As long as Louis kept his hand wrapped up in the back of Harry’s coat he was fine. He was good. And he was okay.

The girls rung up Harry’s order and stuffed two paper bags with the bakery’s logo on the front full of paper cups of hot chocolate and warm croissants. Sophia had slipped fresh money into Harry’s wallet and he counted it out as Louis scooped both bags off the counter and into his hands. 

“Thank you so much,” Harry said, and the girls waved him and Louis away with twin smiles. 

“They’re gonna love you,” Louis said as he passed one bag off to Harry. 

“They already do!” Harry reminded him. Louis barked a laugh to the cloudy sky and they made their way back to the front of the concert hall. The crowd screamed as they got closer and they cheered as Louis began to pull cups of steaming cocoa from his paper bag and pass them out into cold, waiting hands. Harry passed out the hot croissants and he received thanks after thanks that he brushed off as best as he could. 

“It’s the least I can do,” he said to a girl who threw her arms around him. “I can’t even tell you how glad I am that you guys are here to give us another shot.”

“We’d wait forever for you,” a girl said, a paper cup held to her lips, and Harry caught her eye and she beamed. 

“You don’t have to,” he said. “I’m right here. And I’m not going anywhere.” Louis crumpled up his empty paper bag and helped Harry finish handing out croissants before crumpling and throwing out the second bag and rejoining Harry at his side as he finished signing his name over and over. And as Louis pressed a steadying hand to the small of Harry’s back a girl caught sight of the ring on Louis’s finger and she squealed, clapping her hand over her mouth. 

“What?” Harry asked, looking up from the paper he was signing to glance at her. 

“Are you two getting married?” she cried, sounding just a little bit hysterical, and Harry didn’t know if he should comfort her or apologize or simply nod and carry on. But her words caught the attention of the fans nearest to her and a dozen heads shot up at once as Louis looked at Harry for help. And Harry did all he could do. He shrugged and he smiled and he said,

“Yeah. Yeah, I guess we are.” And the keening wail that erupted from the crowd was absurd enough to spin Harry’s head as he tried to look everywhere at once. Girls dashed to Louis’s side, fawning and cooing over him as they shook his hand and asked to see his ring, and the people who did not flock to Louis flocked to Harry, asking him a thousand questions all at once as he tried to get his bearings.

“Uh, yeah, we met in New York City,” Harry said to one fan who tugged at his arm to get his attention. “No, I don’t…we don’t have a date yet…” He heard Louis from far away say,

“Yeah, it’s really nice, isn’t it?” as he fanned his hand out to give the crowd a better look at his ring. Another fan pulled on Harry’s coat and months ago the touch would have sent him reeling, running to hide in the venue where no one could lay eyes on him, but he was fine and this was easy and when he glanced up at the open front door of the venue he shrugged helplessly at Zayn who stood watching the chaos unfold with a smirk on his face. He stuck his tongue out at Harry and vanished back into the building and slowly Harry tried to make his way back to Louis to pull him into the venue. 

“We gotta go,” he said, apologetic, to the frantic crowd. “I’m sorry, we have to sound check. We’ll come out after the show, I promise.” And he took hold of Louis and pulled him close, the crowd waving goodbye, and Louis grinned from ear to ear as Harry dragged him to the steps of the venue. They dashed up and they closed the door behind them, silencing the roar of the crowd, and Louis looked at him with pink cheeks and adoration in his eyes and he said, 

“I think they’re happy for you.”

“For us,” Harry said, and he offered Louis his arm and Louis took it and the two of them headed towards the stage where The Troves stood in waiting. “I’m so sorry,” Harry said before Sophia could ambush him. “The fans just found out we’re…we’re engaged, and they went a little crazy.”

“Good crazy?” she asked, and Harry nodded.

“I guess so.”

“Well, good,” she snapped. Jeff shoved Harry’s earpiece into his ear and Sophia gave him a nudge towards the stage and, breathless and exhilarated, Harry took his spot in the center of the stage right where he belonged. 

 

The Troves took the stage at a quarter past eight and Harry came alive by eight twenty five. He saw faces in the crowd who had fawned over Louis (his _fiancé_ ) and who had fawned over him and he reached out to the familiar faces and touched desperate fingers with his own. He saw signs in the audience for the first time in a long time (maybe they had always been there but he had not noticed them before) and they said the same things they had always said, telling Harry they loved him and he was perfect and he was the sun and the moon and the stars and the goddamn air they breathed. And it was overwhelming and it was too much but he was okay and he was fine and he pumped his fists up to get them to scream and when they did he pretended to fall over and they erupted in crying his name all together. 

And he peered past the lights and he saw something new. Two girls held a sign between them with big black words written across in block letters and Harry leaned close and squinted to get a better view. Once he realized what it said he leaned back and he pointed out into the crowd.

“Now that’s a sign I can get behind!” he cried out, and the girls jumped up and down as he read it out loud. “’Fuck Michael Clifford!!!’” he read, and the crowd screamed for him and Harry shouted with them (his throat hurt; it had been weeks since it hurt but he always pushed too hard and he would be paying for it later). 

“Fuck Michael Clifford!” the crowd cried to him. 

“Fuck yeah!” Harry replied. They loved him, they supported him, and everything and more they had to give was his. 

“Fuck Michael Clifford!” they cried again. And Harry held the microphone out to the crowd and let them chant, crying out against the man who (they had no idea) had nearly taken Harry away from them. If they knew they would be doing more than screaming, of that he was sure. And maybe he wanted that and maybe he didn’t; maybe he wanted a rebellion and maybe he wanted them to scream and cry and make it known what Michael had done to him (all they knew was the made-up fight and all they knew was what lies Michael spat to some shitty magazine), but he knew Sophia was watching and he knew she was going to scream at him when he stepped offstage.

He had an image to uphold, after all, and Sophia wanted him to be the bigger man. Sure, he could be the bigger man. He would not spit obscenities to magazines and he would not tell a soul what Michael had done. But here he was the fucking ruler of the world, and here he was not going to take anything lying down. The crowd cried out for Michael’s head and Harry let his knees hit the stage as he held his mic out for them to scream. He was fine; this was fine, and he did not taste blood in the back of his throat because bleeding onstage was not an option. 

He had an image to uphold, after all. 

Eventually the audience quieted, thousands of voices going quiet at once, and Harry brought his microphone back to his lips and said, 

“Thank you. What do you say we scream so loud that the assholes at Diamante Records can hear us?!” And he stood and he leapt onto his amp and the audience screamed for all they were worth because they were loyal to a fault and they would do anything for him.

Later Harry made good on his promise and he stood in his T-shirt in the bitter cold, warm still from sweating onstage, and he signed his name and he took pictures and he spoke to each and every person who demanded his attention. And when no one was looking he spat blood into his palm and wiped it on his jeans because it was all that he could do. A fan asked for a picture with Louis and Louis was bemused as he shrugged at Harry, passing the girl’s phone into Harry’s hands and wrapping one arm around the girl’s shoulders.

“I just want to say I got a picture with the person behind _Of the Color of the Sky_!” the girl explained breathlessly when Harry handed her phone back. 

“I can’t blame you,” Harry said. “He’s drop dead gorgeous, isn’t he?” The girl nodded and she blushed when Louis smirked, knowing full well the effect his smile had on people, and Harry hurried him away before he could melt anymore hearts. 

“Mine,” Harry reminded him in bed, biting at his chest and at his stomach as Louis writhed beneath him.

“Yours,” Louis agreed, and the metallic click the rings on their fingers made as they grasped hands was all the reminder Harry needed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Message me with anything @ ourl0veisgod on tumblr. 
> 
> Uhhh thank you for reading, blah blah, I appreciate comments more than anything and I appreciate everyone who's stuck with this and with me! <3


	17. Chapter 17

The last thing Harry expected was to be woken up by Sophia banging on the door of his hotel room, but there it was. Groaning, sore from last night, he climbed naked out of bed and threw clean underwear on before padding to the door. When he pulled it open Sophia covered her eyes, grimacing and snapping, 

“Put some clothes on!”

“It’s just me and you, Soph,” Harry deadpanned, and he opened up the door enough to let her pass by and she flounced into the room, her phone in hand. Whatever was troubling her was about to explode out of her mouth and Harry collapsed onto the couch in the living area to wait for her words to pour over him.

“I asked you to be the bigger man,” she said, and Harry knew what this was about. This was Sophia getting upset all over again about last night, about riling up the crowd against Michael Clifford, and Harry had to resist rolling his eyes as he told her he was trying to be just that. “You’re not!” she snapped. “And now all these stupid articles are coming out about your feud or whatever this is and I’m the one who has to answer calls from magazines and tell them to shove it up their ass!”

“Let me talk to them, then,” Harry said, burying his face in his hands and carding them through his hair. He was exhausted, his throat raw, and when he looked back up at her she threw her hands in the air. 

“This has to end,” she said. “They are on Diamante Records, Haz, and they have power in the media that we don’t have now. Okay? They can spin this any way they want and believe me, they want to make you the bad guy. Do you understand what they can do to us?”

“What can they do to us, exactly?” Harry challenged. The stupid fucking politics of music were going to suck the life from him, nearly dying at the hands of some God-awful rock band causing a snowball to turn into an avalanche. 

“I don’t know,” Sophia wailed. Harry heard the bed creak from the other room as Louis stirred, but if Sophia cared if Louis heard she did not let on. “I think they just want to keep up the feud to keep their name on everyone’s mind,” she said. “I don’t know how far they want to take this but I’m telling you, Haz, it’s exhausting me. I can’t…” Shocked at what almost passed her lips, she closed her mouth and pretended to pick lint from her sweater, but Harry caught her and she knew it.

“What?” Harry asked. “What were you going to say?” 

“Nothing,” Sophia said. Her pinkened cheeks told another story. 

“What?” Harry persisted. “I’m not going to fucking break if you tell it like it is, Soph, okay?” 

“I was going to say,” Sophia said without looking at him, “that I can’t wait for this tour to be over so I can stop babysitting.” She opened and closed her mouth as Harry took in her words, agony lighting up her eyes. “But I decided I didn’t mean that. I’m sorry, Haz, I really am. I don’t mean that. I just thought you should be reminded of what I go through to protect you and that it drains me. It’s exhausting. And some days I wake up and I can’t wait for March to end.” She trembled as she spoke and Harry was sorry, guilt and anger brewing deep inside him where he couldn’t quite reach at it to quell it. Harry was sorry and he shook his head, burying his face again in his hands as Sophia fell over herself trying to apologize.

(She still saw him as damaged, after all, a ticking time bomb with a wet fuse but one that could still ignite at any moment.)

“Haz, no, don’t be upset, I didn’t mean…” But Harry had to know one thing. 

“Is it only you?” he asked, looking up at the person he trusted most in the world, the person who never let him down.

“Is what only me?” she asked. She begged him to stop asking what he wanted to ask with her eyes but he had to know, he fucking had to. 

“Are you the only one,” he breathed, “who’s still done with me?” The silence that followed told the whole story before she even opened her mouth to reply. “Don’t lie to me,” he ordered before she got the chance to conjure up some excuse. And she frowned and she would not look at him and when he asked her again, louder this time, she wrung her hands and she said,

“I don’t know. That’s the truth, Haz, I don’t know. Ask them yourself. A lot...” She bit her lip and looked down and Harry was sorry for causing her pain but he was sorrier for being the reason they had to have this fight at all. “A lot of things have changed,” she managed, “since you boys have talked about your plans for the future. I think maybe it’s time to have the conversation again…don’t you?” And Harry nodded and Sophia walked away and The Troves had another show tonight and she reminded him to be there for sound check at four o’clock and he assured her today he would not be late. 

And when he found himself on the bathroom floor Louis was there to hold his hair back and tell him everything was okay. 

 

Harry arrived early to sound check with Louis on his heels because he had to know. He had to know before they went on tonight what exactly they were planning for the future. He had to know if they were breaking; he had to know if they were broken. Louis and Harry stopped again at the bakery by the venue and they handed out hot chocolate and warm muffins and together they walked into the venue where the rest of the band waited. 

Zayn looked nervous as Harry gathered the band up, Niall and Liam exchanging an anxious glance when they thought Harry could not see. But Harry ignored it and he led them away from Sophia and from the roadies and from Louis and he pulled them aside and they waited for him to speak.

(Something was eating him alive and they knew it; they stood in a ring around him and did not say a word.)

“Sophia wants out,” was the first thing Harry said, and three heads shot up at the same time. 

“What do you mean?” Zayn asked, concern aging his face far beyond his years, and Niall and Liam looked much the same.

“She wants out,” Harry repeated. “Right after the tour. She’s done with…with me. And I asked her…” It was hard to let the words out and maybe Harry was hemorrhaging from the inside out because he tasted copper on his tongue and nothing about this was going to be easy.

(It had been easy for too long and Harry should have known better; he should have known it was never going to last forever.)

“What did you ask her?” Zayn prodded, ever the mouthpiece, and Harry looked up at him and he said,

“I asked her if she was the only one who was done. I asked her if she knew about…about how you guys felt and she said she doesn’t know. So this is…this is me asking you. I need to know.”

The Troves fell silent and Harry wanted to collapse, burying his face in his knees and curling up where no one could lay eyes on him. But he didn’t. And Zayn was good and Zayn spoke up and he said,

“Things change, Harry.” And it was all he said and he closed his mouth but there was something more, something else, and Harry was not going to break but maybe he was going to bend. 

“What does that _mean_?” he asked. But not one of his best friends, his best boys, had an answer for that one. “Are you in?” he said. “Or are you out? It’s simple, isn’t it?” He was growing angry and he knew it was wrong of him but there was nothing he could do. They stood before him, somber and silent, and he was not going to bend but he was probably going to shatter. 

“It’s not simple,” Zayn said. “Not anymore.”

“What does that mean?” Harry demanded. “What are you saying, Zayn? In or out, it’s a fucking one syllable word. Say it.”

“Haz, hey,” Niall said, but Harry balled his hands into fists because he needed to know, he needed to cry, and Harry said,

“Say it! Tell me the truth. Because I’m sure as hell not going to waste my time with people who are itching to be done with me for good.”

“Harry, do you even hear what you’re saying?” Zayn asked. He looked anguished and cruelly Harry was glad. Maybe they would have an answer for him if just for a goddamn minute they felt the same pain he felt at the thought of losing it all. 

“I’m not hearing what _you_ have to say,” Harry shot back. This was all wrong, this was awful, but Harry had started this and he had no idea how to back down. Zayn was angry already, his own hands curling into fists, and Niall and Liam flanked him looking ready to take hold of him if he tried to throw a punch. 

(Harry was a train wreck and The Troves were tied to the tracks, waiting for him to run them over or erupt trying.)

“Harry, listen,” Zayn said. “This has been a really hard year on all of us and you have to understand how tired we are.”

“A hard year on all of us?!” Harry echoed. “Are you kidding me?” And he knew he was wrong and he knew he was nasty and he knew Zayn had every right to hit him with everything he had. 

“Not everything is about you,” Zayn said. “Believe it or not! Do you have any idea how hard it was on me, on all of us, to rebuild this band from the ground up?” 

(And in the end everything always fell apart again and Harry was done trying. He was done.)

“We’re doing so well,” he said, loosening his fists and watching the rage contorting Zayn’s face. “We’re on top of the goddamn world again and you’re telling me you really want out?”

“I didn’t say that!” Zayn barked. And he was good and he was kind but there was only so much Harry could throw at him before he reached the breaking point. 

“Then what are you trying to say?!” Harry roared, and it was over and Harry coughed, a smudge of blood in his open palm, and the look of horror that crossed Zayn’s face broke his battered old heart more than he thought he could stand. 

“You’re bleeding again,” Zayn told him, and he knew that. He fucking knew that, but Zayn looked wrecked and he looked sad, sad, sad, and it was Harry’s fault that Niall and Liam looked at anything but him as Zayn squared off with him. 

“So what?” Harry snapped. 

“So,” Zayn said, his anger evaporating, “I think it’s time that we took a break. Don’t you, Haz? After this tour…fuck.” He blinked and there was no way in hell he was going to cry but there it was; tears clung to his long eyelashes when he looked up again and there was no mistaking the pain in his voice. “I was hoping we wouldn’t even have to have this conversation. But you’re so intense, Haz, and you need to relax before you kill yourself. After this tour we don’t have to say goodbye forever, man. But I think we all agree that we need a break. So yes, if that answers your fucking question. After this, I am done.” 

And there it was. 

But Zayn was speaking again and he came at Harry with his sleeve and he said, “But you’re fucking bleeding, man, let me get that.” 

“Fuck off,” Harry said, taking two steps back to avoid Zayn. 

“Harry, please, I’m trying to help you.” 

“Stay away from me. If you’re done, be done now. No point drawing it out, right? Fucking leave if you aren’t all in; leave right now.” He was cruel and he was babbling and he wiped at his mouth with his hand and Zayn slumped his shoulders and looked at the ground and he was fucking breaking. 

“I’m not leaving now,” Zayn said. “Right now, right here, I’m in. You’re right, Haz, we’re just getting to be brothers again and I wouldn’t trade that for the world. But Harry, I know it’s not important to you but it’s important to us.”

“What is?” Harry spat as Niall and Liam looked up as Zayn threw his arm back to point at them.

“Your health,” Zayn said. “Your mental health and all the shit you put your body through. In case you’ve forgotten, you’ve survived two drug overdoses in just as many months and I don’t know how much longer you can just keep going on.”

“I’m fine,” Harry snapped. But he wasn’t, he wasn’t, and maybe everything was meant to fall apart in the end. 

“You’re not fine!” Zayn barked. He looked back to Niall and Liam for help but they were quiet and they were calm and Harry knew by the way they refused to make eye contact that neither of them were about to pick sides. Exasperated, Zayn stepped closer and again Harry stepped back. He held his hands palm up, trying to make peace, but he was done and so was Harry. 

“I’m here!” Harry cried, and he spread his arms out wide. “What else do you want from me? You remember what you called me, Zayn, last time we were here? And I’m here and I’m fine, no thanks to you, and I’m not going anywhere!”

Zayn was quiet as he studied Harry. He opened his mouth and closed it like a goddamn fish and finally he said, “There’s no fighting you, Harry. You’re the most stubborn goddamn bastard I’ve ever met. But I am your best friend, I promise you. That’s not ever going to change. So why can’t you stop panicking and making yourself sick and just wait to see where the end of the tour leaves us? Why do you do this to yourself?” 

“I don’t owe you an explanation,” Harry spat, “for anything. I mean it, Zayn, leave now if you’re done.” (He was stubborn and he was mean and nothing was ever going to change that.) 

“I’m not going anywhere.” Zayn was stubborn as all hell, too. But Zayn’s face softened as he looked at Harry and he asked, completely defeated, “Why can’t you just trust what we’re doing now, Haz?” And there was nothing Harry could say to that because he was a wreck and he was breaking and he was always, always going to fear the future. Maybe the rest of The Troves could turn their fear off, put it in the backs of their minds, but Harry was incapable of pushing it away. It consumed him and if he did not stop this conversation right now he was going to fucking lose it. 

When he tried to turn away Zayn grabbed his arm and it was all Harry could do to keep from crying his fucking heart out when he turned back to face him.

“What, Zayn?” Harry asked.

“I’m scared,” Zayn said, “that if I let you go right now you’re going to do something stupid. Please, Harry, don’t self-destruct. We’re all here trying to help you be better, for good instead of for now.” 

And he was Harry’s best friend in the entire world and he looked at him with fear lighting up his dark eyes and Harry was mean to the fucking bone and he said,

“Let me go.”

“Harry.”

“Fuck off!” he barked. “Let me go. I’ll come back for the show. I’m not going to stand here and let you tell me you’re here for me and you love me and you want me to be happy.” It was coming out, it was all spilling out, and he was going to explode if he did not let it go. “This band is my life,” he said. He ripped his arm from Zayn’s grasp and he straightened out his coat and he said, “It’s everything to me. If you guys fucking quit on me…”

(He was not going to cry, he was not going to lose his mind.)

“What, Harry?” Zayn asked. “What are you going to do if we quit the band?” And Harry had no idea if he was trying to threaten them or if that was simply what Zayn thought, but he growled and wiped again at his mouth even though there was no more blood to wipe away and he squared his shaking shoulders and looked hard at Zayn. 

“I don’t know,” he said. “But this is it for me. It’s all I have, Zayn.” And he turned away and Zayn was (stupid) good and he let him go. 

(Two steps forward, three steps back.)

Harry stuffed his hands in the pockets of his coat and he stomped out towards the stage where Sophia and the roadies and Louis stood waiting for The Troves to return. 

“They’re doing sound check,” Harry snapped to Sophia. “Not me. I have to go. I have to go _now_.” And maybe Sophia saw the panic in his face and maybe she was sympathetic and she reached out to him but he pulled away and she frowned as the rest of The Troves headed out from where Harry had left them backstage. 

“What happened?” Sophia asked, bewildered. 

“Doesn’t matter. I’ll be back for the show.” He spoke tersely, throat tight, because the longer he opened his mouth the sooner he was going to begin to cry. He wanted to get the hell out of here before they saw him do it. 

“Haz, please don’t just leave,” Sophia said, but Niall said something quietly to her that sounded like, 

“Let him go. It’s okay.” And it was good and they let him go and guilt ripped at him from the inside out as he left Louis behind without even fucking looking at him. He was despicable, he was filth, and he looked down at his shoes as he dashed away from the band and the only friends he had in the world. They let him go and he was glad but there was a part of him that wished desperately someone would call for him to come back. They didn’t and he did not turn around and he burst through the back door of the venue, far away from the waiting fans, and he had no idea where he was going but it had to be far away from here. 

(The last time he ran away from this venue he was looking for an escape in the form of drugs; this time was different and this time he was not going to fucking break. He was a lot of things but one thing had changed; Louis had made him strong.) 

He weaved through the streets and he knew he was going to be hopelessly lost but he had his phone in his pocket and he could find his way back when he had to. There was not much time before he had to be back for the show, an hour at the most, but maybe he would be okay. His eyes streamed and maybe he pretended it was from the cold but he was fucking crying as he walked and he knew it. 

( _Please don’t let there be any fans walking around in search of me_.)

He was stupid and he was going to self-destruct and he found himself standing in front of some shitty, dingy bar and without hesitation he pushed through the door and stepped inside. His phone vibrated in his pocket as he sat down at the deserted bar and waited for the bartender to greet him. He was a masochist at heart and he checked his phone while he waited and there was a text blinking on his screen from Louis. The bartender asked him what he wanted before he got the chance to read it and he said,

“Jack and Coke, please,” and the man nodded and set about making his drink. Harry had not had a drop to drink since flying home alone from London, broken and tired and spent. (Nearly three months; was he really going to throw it all away?) But it was impossible to believe spread out before him as he thought, his elbows on the bar, of the speed at which everything had spun out of control. In less than four months Louis had gone from a fan to a stranger to a confidante to a lover to a fiancé and it was absurd, it was unreal, but it was Harry’s life and there was no changing it now. He had broken and repaired and broken again himself and Louis in less than a fucking quarter of a year. He was hopeless. He was a wreck. And the bartender set his drink before him and Harry thanked him and the man said,

“No problem, mate,” and Harry held the glass in both hands and contemplated throwing it against the wall. But he didn’t. He was stubborn and he tipped the glass to his lips and in one long gulp it was gone. He grimaced at the slow burn deep in his throat, not used to it after being sober for so long, and he set the glass down with a thunk and without pausing to think he asked for another.

(Four months was not long enough to know; twenty-one was too young for Harry to take Louis away from his life and promise him forever.)

Harry pounded down his second glass of Jack and Coke and he winced (it hurt more than he remembered) and he asked for another. 

“Might want to slow down,” the bartender suggested, but Harry told him to fuck off and without another word the man brought him his third glass and a fourth and set them down before him.

“Thanks, mate,” Harry said, letting venom drip from his voice as he imitated the man’s accent, and the bartender rolled his eyes but he wandered away to the next customer who came in through the door and Harry was happy to be left alone. He swallowed his third drink in one gulp and nursed the fourth, his head already swimming as he felt the heat of liquor fill up his stomach. This was all wrong; he should have left and headed back to the venue to apologize on his knees before Louis and the band for all that he had done the moment he stepped foot in the bar. 

But he didn’t. 

He finished his sixth drink and he sat with his head in his hands, willing the world to swallow him whole. But it didn’t; it didn’t, and he was going to be sloppily drunk by the time he made it back for his sold out fucking show. He had half an hour now before he had to make the long walk back. He felt warm all over and he was not bothered by the thought of the frigid cold. He would make it back in time, stomping through slush and icy cracks in the pavement, and everything would be all right.

(He would more likely than not make himself throw up in the bathroom to avoid the telltale smell of alcohol on his breath.)

And then his phone vibrated again and he pulled it from his pocket with a start, forgetting Louis had texted him half an hour ago and he had yet to reply. He opened up the text waiting for him and his heart could not take much more of a beating as he read,

_I love you. Come back soon, I’ll be here waiting for you. xx_

Louis was perfect and Louis was too good and Harry’s hand trembled as he denied another drink and asked the bartender for his check. He opened up the text that had followed the first and it was Louis’s name on his screen (and Louis’s name all over his goddamn heart). 

_I know it looks dark, babe, but you’re the sun. xxxx_

And Louis sent him fucking kisses in a text he did not deserve and instead of smashing his phone into splinters of broken glass Harry dropped money on the counter and shoved out of his stool, teetering for a moment as he tried to gather up the courage to return (home) to Louis. He had to go; he had no time to stand here and waver on the spot. He pressed one hand to his stool as he blinked, trying desperately to wipe the stars from his vision. The bartender was talking to him, asking him from far away if he was all right, and he nodded and he lifted his hand from the stool that kept him anchored and as best he could he made his way back out into the icy night. 

Bitter wind whipped around him and whisked his coat out in front of him as he walked. It was hard to lift his head (every time he tried he got too damn dizzy to stand) but he got his bearings and he was sure he looked just as drunk as he felt. 

(The last time he was this drunk it had been from the bottle of Smirnoff he had hidden under his bunk and Zayn had stolen it after he passed out in the kitchenette and poured it out on the sidewalk.)

The streets of London were sprawling and wide, wide, wide and Harry had no fucking idea where he was but he was quickly running out of time. He wrestled his phone from his pocket and he nearly dropped it, his fingers numb from the cold. But he caught it and he punched in the address of the concert hall (how strange it was, the front man of the band everyone came to see lost on his way back to them) and as his phone struggled to find him he waited in the middle of the street with the wind billowing all around him and shoving his hair over his face. A car honked from behind him and he hopped up on the sidewalk out of the street and the person driving shouted at him words he could not understand for the life of him and it didn’t fucking matter. 

(If he had gotten drunk enough to get hit by a goddamn car his bandmates would have killed him and he would have deserved it.)

If he showed up to the fucking show this drunk The Troves were going to fucking kill him. He followed the map on his phone as he weaved through the busy, buzzing streets of London and he tried to think of something, anything to save himself for once he got there. There had to be some excuse, some reason for what he had done, but the longer he thought and the closer he got to the venue the farther away a solution seemed. They were going to kill him and he was going to deserve it. He pressed the hand not clutching his phone to his lip, running his fingers along the scar Zayn had left with his fist. Zayn was going to hit him again and he had fucking destroyed everything they had been working towards since the day he met Louis. 

Just like he always did. He always did what he fucking did best; he destroyed things. He destroyed people and their trust in him and he destroyed weeks and weeks of sobriety and his stomach turned the closer he got to the venue; he was going to deserve everything they threw at him. 

And there he was and he was not ready but the fans were already inside and he had to be onstage in three minutes and there was no time for him to be afraid now. No time to puke in the bathroom and no time to slip a cough drop under his tongue; he had to go and he had to go now. It was impossible to climb the stairs up to the front door but he did it and his stomach heaved but he didn’t have time to stop and so he didn’t. He hit the front door and it was locked and this was all too much, Harry fucking Styles locked out of his own concert.

With shaking, blurry fingers he dialed Louis’s number and pressed his phone to his ear. It only rang once before Louis answered (Louis was good and he was going to be so fucking angry but for now he picked up the phone) and he said,

“Haz.”

“I’m here,” Harry said. “I’m here, let me in.” And Louis hung up without another word and thirty seconds later the front door burst open and Louis nearly slammed into Harry as he stepped outside to meet him.

“Haz,” he said again. He was breathless and his cheeks were pink and Harry wanted to tell him he was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen but he didn’t have the time. He dashed inside and Louis followed him and together they ran towards backstage. 

“Harry,” Louis said from behind him. “Harry, wait.” 

“What?” Harry asked without turning around.

“Stop, just wait. I have your fucking earpiece; Jeff’s gone.” And at the bottom of the stone steps leading to backstage Harry froze. He spun around to face Louis and he nearly fell, so dizzy he had to reach out and take hold of Louis’s arm to stay upright. The shock that crossed Louis’s face was going to be the fucking death of Harry; it was agonizing to be sized up when he knew he was about to be ripped to shreds. And Louis opened his mouth and closed it again, his blue eyes boring into Harry. 

“Haz,” he breathed. “Have you been drinking?”

There was no point in lying; he fucking knew. “Yes.”

“Why?” 

(He was broken, he was breaking, and he was always going to be this way.)

“Everything’s falling apart,” Harry croaked. And it was no excuse, he was simply broken beyond repair, and Louis’s eyes darted up as footsteps pounded down the stairs.

“Where have you been?!” Zayn cried, both hands landing on Harry’s shoulders from behind. 

“He’s drunk,” Louis said. “He’s fucking drunk.” And his eyes were dark and he looked up at Zayn and not at Harry and he would do anything to take back each and every mistake he had made. 

“No,” Zayn breathed. His hands were rough as they tightened on Harry’s shoulders and he turned him around, searching his face for the truth as he fought to keep from wavering on the spot. And he was shocked, he was scared, and his lips fell open and Harry couldn’t think straight for long enough to tell him he was so, so fucking sorry. From behind him Louis made a small noise and Zayn was going to fucking kill Harry and he was going to deserve it.

“Are you playing the show?” Zayn asked, and Harry nodded before he could think. He had to go out there; he owed them. He owed Louis and he owed Zayn and he was going to go out there no matter how painfully the alcohol sloshed in his stomach; he had no choice anymore. 

“Lou,” Zayn said, “Give me his earpiece.” And Louis’s hand darted out from behind him and Zayn shoved his earpiece in and he said, “Get the fuck out there, then. We’re late.” 

“Where’s Jeff?” Harry asked, grasping at the only thing that did not make any sense, but Zayn ignored him and Zayn dashed up the stairs and Louis followed him. The only thing Harry could do was tag along. 

“You stupid fuck,” Zayn said as he strapped his guitar across his shoulders. “You don’t ever stop, do you?” And Harry had no answer for that and he left Louis behind and he did all he could do. He stepped out onstage and he tried to clear his foggy head and into his microphone he screamed,

“Good evening, London!” 

It was all that he could do.

 

Afterwards he held one hand to his mouth and dashed from the stage before his bandmates had even unplugged their instruments and he made his way alone to the bathroom. His knees hit the floor and he wrapped both arms around the toilet to throw up the Jack and Coke burning in his stomach. He was vile, he was crazy, and there was nothing he could do but shiver and shake like the junkie he was in front of the toilet until his stomach was empty.

He wiped his mouth and he pressed his forehead to the cold porcelain and just like it always did the door crashed open behind him. One soft hand landed on the back of his neck and Louis’s knees creaked as he crouched at Harry’s side. 

“You all right, baby?” Louis asked. 

(He was cruel and he was awful but he was Louis’s baby above all things, wasn’t he?)

“Fine,” Harry choked. And Louis was good and he pressed a bottle of cold water into Harry’s hand. Louis watched him as he took long gulps, the water easing some of the burning pain in his throat. Harry could not look at him. He wouldn’t. Louis was at his side and it was all he could ask for. 

“Jeff quit,” Louis said, answering Harry’s question from before the show.

“He quit? Why?”

“Because he got scared,” Louis replied. Harry handed him the empty bottle of water and Louis tossed it towards the garbage can, bouncing it off the rim and sending it skittering across the floor. 

“Of me?”

“That you weren’t coming back. Sophia knows, I know…the reason you ran for it. And Jeff said he was done being scared for his job and for your life every day of his.”

“Bullshit,” Harry spat without meaning to. There had to have been another reason; Jeff had to have known he was not going to detonate. None of this made sense and Harry fought the urge to run again. He turned his eyes to Louis and wished he hadn’t; Louis’s face was contorted with pain (pity and fear and something that looked like it could have been love). 

“I’m sorry,” Louis said. His hand was gentle as he tugged at Harry’s hair, carding it back from his sweaty forehead and tucking curls behind his ears. “He really didn’t want to go. It hurt him a lot to do it, I could tell.”

“But?” Harry asked.

“But…” Louis said. He leaned in and he pressed his lips to Harry’s forehead and when he pulled back most of the pain twisting his face was gone. “He worries about you just like we all do. It just got to be too much for him, I guess.”

“And you?” Harry asked. “Will it ever be too much for you?”

“Don’t ask me that,” Louis said. 

“Tell me the goddamn truth.” 

(It hurt; it hurt, all of it fucking hurt and Harry was sick and tired of feeling like the world could collapse at any moment.)

“Hazza, I love you.”

“Answer the fucking question.” (He was Cruel with a capital C and nothing was ever going to change that.)

Louis pulled too hard at his hair and Harry scowled, swatting his hand away and barking at him to cut it out. “Answer me,” he said.

“You’re always too much for me,” Louis said. “You live and breathe intensity and I love you. I love you not in spite of your intensity but because of it. You love so deeply, Haz, and I’m sorry that a lot of the time it breaks your goddamn heart.”

(It meant the world that Louis was yet to run but these conversations seemed moments from a goodbye.)

“I know you’re in pain,” Louis said. He was so gentle, so calm, and he pressed kisses to Harry’s temple over and over. “I know you feel betrayed, baby, but you can choose to be…”

“Yeah,” Harry said. “I can choose to be okay. I know that. I fucking know that.” Louis drew back and his eyes were so wide, the deep crystal clear blue of a summer sky, and he was so bright and yet he had told Harry that he was the sun. 

“You can choose to not be scared. I know the future scares you; it scares me, too.” Harry closed his eyes and Louis wrapped his arms around Harry’s neck, drawing him to his chest. Harry listened to the steady beat of Louis’s heart. It was a small and simple thing but something that eased the tension from Harry’s aching bones. 

“Don’t be scared,” Louis told him. “Don’t worry about the band and don’t worry about the tour. Don’t worry about me, either, because no matter what’s in the future for you, I’m going to be there right next to you.”

“Are you?” Harry asked. Louis had one hand buried tight in Harry’s hair and the other twisted in the back of his sweaty T-shirt and the comfort his touch gave Harry was indescribable. (Something good, something pure, something Harry was never going to be able to give him in return.) He smelled like fucking cinnamon and sugar and boy and Harry wanted to collapse into him and never move again. If he stayed here he would not have to face Zayn and face Sophia and face the fact that his constant running for his life caused Jeff to run for his. They were going to rip him to shreds and he was going to deserve every blow.

“I am,” Louis said, and Harry could not bite down the strangled wail that escaped him. 

“I fucked up,” he moaned, sobriety hitting him like a goddamn truck as he tried to get his head together. It hurt; everything fucking hurt, and he moaned into Louis’s soft T-shirt and clutched him as tight as he could. Louis was good and Louis was steady and he was not going anywhere. “I fucked up,” Harry whimpered again, louder this time.

“Shh…” Louis breathed, and he pulled at Harry’s hair and the sharp pain reminded him he was very, very much alive. 

“I fucked up,” Harry said. “I’m so, so sorry, Lou.”

(And wasn’t this the cycle of abuse, Harry apologizing and fucking up over and over and over again until each and every apology meant nothing anymore?)

“I know you are,” Louis cooed in his ear. “I know, baby, it’s okay.” But it wasn’t, and Harry deserved the agony that wracked his tired body as he fought and lost against the tears pressing at the backs of his eyes. And he was crying and Louis held him, kissing his hair over and over and telling him he was not broken, not yet. He was okay. He was okay. 

“I’m so sorry,” Harry said, and he sure as hell sounded broken. His knees ached on the tile floor and his whole body was cold, shaking as he cried with his hands twisted tight in Louis’s shirt. This was wrong, this was all wrong, and how had it taken so little time for weeks of building himself back up to come crashing down? 

“What are you sorry for?” Louis asked. His touch was all Harry needed, and he was an addiction just as much as the alcohol he had been unable to keep down. 

“For letting you down,” Harry told him. He was sorry, he was so, so sorry, and nothing was going to be able to take back the damage he had done by running away to swallow down his fears with a shot of Jack. 

“You never let me down, Hazza.” And it hurt, that Louis was the only one to have ever called him that, and the pain that came with imagining that voice gone forever was almost enough to make Harry stop breathing. He couldn’t do it; he wouldn’t. He had tried already to give Louis up. He had tried to give him the life he deserved. But that was long gone and Harry was more selfish than Louis was selfless and he was going to break him over and over until there was nothing left. But Louis was sweet and Louis was tender and he asked Harry in a slow voice, “Do you want to get up now? Want to go to bed?” And Harry did, more than anything, and he nodded and Louis was gone. He stood and he held both hands out to Harry’s, his thick golden engagement ring gleaming in the shitty buzzing lighting on the ceiling. 

“Come on,” Louis said. “Get up off the dirty floor and I’ll take you to bed and show you the good kind of dirty.” Harry craned his neck to look up at Louis and the florescent lights on the ceiling cast his face in shadows, giving him a crazy kind of halo through his hair, and Harry took his hands and let (the love of his life) Louis drag him to his feet. “Get your sea legs,” Louis teased as Harry nearly sent them both crashing into the wall. Louis was beauty and Louis was grace and he held open the bathroom door and put his hand on the small of Harry’s back to guide him out into the empty concert hall. 

“Come on,” Louis said when he faltered, his legs threatening to give out on him. “You’re not going to ask me to carry you, are you? I can if I have to but I really don’t…” He was cut off by The Troves and by Sophia as they made their way down the steps from where they had been waiting for Harry backstage. He had hoped they would have grown tired of waiting and gone back to the hotel, giving him time to sleep off the last of the alcohol burning in his system, but they were here and Zayn was in the lead and his hands were balled up into fists and Sophia clung desperately to the back of his shirt as together they raced towards Harry. And without a moment of hesitation Louis stood in front of Harry and crossed his arms (he was so goddamn good and he was not going anywhere). 

“Fuck off,” Zayn spat once he was close enough to touch. He was fire, he was rage, and Sophia clung to him but her high heels scraped at the floor as she pulled away from her. Niall and Liam were immobile flanking Zayn’s sides; even now they were not willing to take sides. They did not move to help Sophia but they did not move to slam their fists into Harry’s face, either, and Harry’s stomach twisted up in knots as the four of them stood before Louis and sized him up.

“I said fuck off,” Zayn snarled at Louis. “Let me fucking talk to him; I’m not going to hurt him.”

“Zayn,” Louis breathed, holding his arms with his palms up. “Zayn, hey. Let him sleep, please, and before tomorrow’s show we can talk about this. He’s tired and he’s sick, Zayn, please.”

“He’s always _sick_!” Zayn shouted. “He’s always _tired_! How do you think we feel?”

“Zayn there’s no need for this to get out of control,” Sophia tried. Harry watched her, her face twisted, and the pretty pink lipstick he had bought her for Christmas looked good on her even as she fought to get control of Zayn as best she could. 

“Stop protecting him!” Zayn cried. “Soph, you need to stop babying him! And you, too!” He had fury in his eyes as he locked them in on Louis and Harry should have been the one standing in front of Louis, protecting him from the hurricane that was Zayn Malik. “Stop protecting him! Stop pretending he fucking _needs_ you and _loves_ you! This is what he does, Lou! He pulls people in and he makes them fall in love with him and then he breaks them. He’s done it to all of us; what do you think he’s going to do to you?”

And Louis was ice to Zayn’s fire and he took in a deep breath and he said, “I’m not scared of him. I’m not scared of being thrown away like you are.”

Zayn’s eyes widened and there was no way he was going to throw a punch at Louis but Niall and Liam finally reacted, each of them taking one of Zayn’s arms, and he snarled at Louis as he stood resolute. And Louis was not done.

“I don’t know why you put all of this bullshit on Harry’s head,” Louis said. “How dare you call yourself his best friend when you fucking turn on him at the slightest sign of trouble? He counts on you and you know it and the second things stop going your way and he reaches out for help you’re the first one to start throwing punches!”

“Fuck you!” Zayn shouted, and he lunged for Louis and Harry took hold of Louis’s arm and pulled him back and out of Zayn’s reach. “Fuck you!” Zayn said again, and for once his anger was not directed at Harry. He was gunning for Louis, his hands balled so tight that his knuckles were white. “You don’t know anything about any of this! You can’t just step into our lives and pretend you know everything about us!” 

“Boys, stop it,” Sophia tried, but just like he always did Zayn ignored her. When he was angry there was no stopping him; he was lightning and he was a storm. 

“Do you want to hit me, Zayn?” Louis asked. “Would that make you feel better? Would that fucking make you feel in control? Go ahead, then, fucking hit me!” He was stupid and Harry took hold of the back of his shirt and pulled him as far away from Zayn as he could. But Harry was losing his tight grip on reality, his brain fuzzy, and he stepped in front of Louis before he could stop him. Harry could not do much but he was going to do whatever it took to keep anything from hurting Louis. 

(Except for himself; he had hurt Louis too much already and that was never going to change.)

“Back off,” Harry said. “Stop fighting, I mean it.”

“Why?” Zayn cried. “Doesn’t this need to be worked out, Haz? Don’t we need to discuss the future of this goddamn horror show?” He took one step forward and Niall and Liam dragged him one step back. 

“It’s not a horror show!” Harry roared. “It’s our fucking lives! No matter what, there’s no fucking escaping it and there’s no fucking stopping it!” He was going to _kill_ Zayn, ripping his stupid smug face off and making him bleed. But Harry was sick, sick, sick and his shouting took all the strength from him and he could not stand tall and face Zayn like he wanted to. His knees gave out and they hit the floor and Louis was at his side as Harry cupped both hands around his mouth and coughed into his palms, falling apart from the inside out. 

“Stop!” Sophia cried from a light year away. “Stop, stop, just look at him! Jesus!” And it was over and Zayn was gone, ripping his arms from Niall and Liam’s hands and slamming the front door of the concert hall as Louis’s hands carded through Harry’s hair. 

“Haz, are you okay?” Sophia asked. Her high heels appeared in Harry’s view of the dirty floor and he craned his neck to look up at her. She saw something twisted in his face and she went white, hitting the floor before him to peer into his eyes. “What happened to you today?” she asked as Louis pulled anxiously at his hair from behind him. 

“They’re done,” Harry said. “You’re done. What else can I say but I’m done myself?” Sophia’s lip quivered and if she was going to cry Harry was going to fucking die, but she didn’t and instead she began to speak.

“It’s my fault, then,” she said. 

“No,” Harry said. He was a fucking adult, far from the kid Sophia first met when she took them on so many years ago, and he was not going to be babied by her anymore. He could tell her the truth; none of this was her fault. “No, I fucked up. I should be…” He choked on fresh blood in his throat and Sophia looked startled, falling from her crouch before him onto her ass on the floor. She sat there on the floor and watched him wipe his mouth on his shirt and if she was going to cry he was going to fucking die.

“I should be able to handle this,” Harry told her. “Not your…not your fault. I mean that.” She was good and she only wanted what was best for him and it was long past due that he started trying to give her the same. Harry reached out behind him, searching for Louis’s hand. “Help me up, please,” he asked, and Louis took hold of his hand and pulled him for the second time that night to his feet. And Louis reached around Harry and offered his hand to Sophia and she only paused a moment before taking it. 

“Thank you,” she said. She straightened out the hem of her black skirt and she looked back up at Harry and Louis and asked, “Are you all right?”

“Yes,” Harry said. The more confidently he said it the easier it was to lie, Sophia nodding and biting at her lip. 

“I’m sorry he’s so hard on you,” Sophia said. “And I’m sorry I told you the truth. I’m sorry you didn’t get the answers you wanted, Haz, but everyone deserves a break after all that we’ve been through.” She was kind as she could be as she sank her talons into his heart and ripped it from his chest, bloodied and still beating. Sophia began to walk away but she turned back to Harry to say, “For the record, Lou, you’re right. Zayn is prone to…to falling apart the moment things stop going right. But Haz, maybe you should start trying to understand that instead of telling him he’s wrong for feeling that way. Okay?” And she was gone and Harry and Louis stood alone in the middle of the empty concert hall. Harry watched her go and the door clicked shut behind her and it was all Harry could do to stand at Louis’s side and keep himself from falling down. 

“Do you want to go to bed?” Louis asked after a long, painful moment of complete silence.

“Yes,” Harry said. “I do.” He dropped his head onto Louis’s shoulder and tried to forget the way Louis stood before him, resolute and unbending, asking Zayn to hit him instead of Harry. There was nothing Harry was ever going to be able to do to repay him for every moment he spent trying to protect him. But he could hold his hand and squeeze, lacing their fingers together as they burst from the venue out into the night. He could press kisses along his jaw in the cab on the way home and he could rub slow circles with his thumb into the inside of Louis’s thigh and he could lock their hotel room, dropping the DO NOT DISTURB sign on the doorknob, and throw Louis onto the bed and remind the both of them what it meant to be very, very much alive.

 

Harry woke up in the morning to a text from Sophia that read,

_Please meet us in the lobby at four. I wouldn’t come earlier, I’m sorry._

She was good, so good, trying still to keep him safe. Harry was groggy and sore as he sat up, the white sheets twisted around his body, and Louis did not stir as Harry yawned and scrolled through his emails on his phone. There was nothing new and he tossed the phone onto the nightstand, trying not to panic over the implications of Sophia’s text. (She was warning him to stay away because the boys did not want to see him; he understood but the sharp bite of pain the realization brought was enough to make Harry collapse back on his pillows and throw one arm over his eyes.)

Maybe if he lay here long enough he would never have to get up again. But he knew better; at four he and Louis would meet the band downstairs and they would take their shiny new tour bus exclusive to this leg of the tour to the next stop- Manchester. From there it was Edinburgh and from there it was Glasgow, and from there they would be heading to Dublin, Paris, Copenhagen, and a handful of cities Harry could not have remembered the names of if his life depended on it. (This was exhausting him; this was draining the life from the marrow in his bones.)

And Jeff was gone and Harry did not blame Sophia for not trying to replace him; he was irreplaceable and Harry understood the desire to save himself. He understood. But it did not make the pain go away; he could not help but think completely hopeless things like _one down, seven to go_. Maybe Jeff was the first and the rest were going to fall like dominos, leaving Harry behind just like he deserved. But Louis stirred, the sheets wrapped around his body slipping as he moved to expose his bare ass, and Harry was captivated as he shook himself out of his self-pitying daze. 

“Lou,” Harry breathed. Sickly pale light streamed in through the window, the sky filled with clouds as always, and the light bounced off Louis’s skin and touched down on every beautiful goddamn inch of him. There were fresh bruises on his throat from Harry’s mouth and there were long red scratches down his back from Harry’s fingernails. 

“Lou,” Harry said again. Louis always kissed the hurt away; he always knew exactly where to touch Harry to ease pain from his body. And Harry needed it, Sophia’s text heavy on his mind, and when Louis did not reply Harry brushed his messy hair back from his forehead with careful fingers.

“Sunshine,” Harry cooed. “Hey, sunshine, time to get up.” Louis was the goddamn feeble sun streaming through the window and he deserved to know; he had to know he was light and he was life. 

“Sunshine?” Louis breathed, eyes still closed against the morning light. “That’s a new one.”

“Can I keep it?” Harry asked. He was so delighted to hear Louis’s voice that he could hardly speak himself, warm all over at the sound of Louis’s sleepy words.

“Yes,” Louis said. “I kinda like it.” He smiled sleepily and finally his eyes opened, baby blues turning up to look at Harry. “Good morning, baby Hazza bee.” In the light of day it was easy to pretend last night had been a dream, something that could be ignored and something they would not have to face the moment they went down to the hotel lobby. 

“I hate when you call me that,” Harry lied for the hell of it, and Louis’s smile quirked up and he lied right back.

“I know you do.” 

“Lou, I need you to do something for me,” Harry said. Louis was here and somehow he was not running away. He was here in bed with Harry and he was gorgeous as he languished with the sheets wrapped around his legs and his golden ring shone in the white light from outside and there was nothing Harry would not do to keep him like this forever.

“What’s that?” Louis asked.

“Touch me.”

“Ah,” Louis said, “I thought you would never ask.” And Louis pulled Harry to him and he kissed him hard on the mouth, his lips soft but his touch rough, knowing just what Harry needed. He kissed him and he kissed him and maybe there was something broken deep within Harry and maybe there was something broken deep inside his band but for the moment none of it mattered.

“Love you,” Louis breathed like he was never, ever going to stop saying it.

“I love you, too,” Harry replied. Louis was good with his mouth and he was better with his hands, his fingers sliding along Harry’s skin as he tugged Harry as close as he could get. 

“You’re a sucker for romance, Harry Styles,” Louis breathed. 

“No,” Harry said. “Just for you.” And maybe forever was not a promise Harry could keep but he was a good liar even to himself and maybe he was capable of giving a lot more than he thought. Maybe it was okay to promise Louis a wedding and a marriage and a life in an apartment in Manhattan (and maybe more than anything Harry wanted those things) but his band was his life and the stage was his home and maybe he was a better liar than he thought. Maybe he was crueler, too, dark and mean where he thought he was doing his best, and maybe there was no happy ending for him and Louis. 

But he kissed Louis and he pushed dark thoughts away and even as he yearned for the empty heat last night’s Jack and Coke had filled him with he kissed Louis with all he had and prayed he had it in him to give Louis the life and the love and the home he deserved. 

(And maybe he was painfully saccharine and maybe in his head was just where he should keep each and every thought of the future.)

The simple life in Manhattan in an apartment under the stars was what Harry wanted to give. But he was prone to overdoing things, romance included, and every time Louis murmured Harry’s name into his skin he wanted to crawl out of it and beg Louis to run before it was too late.

(It was already too late and he fucking knew it; Zayn was right and he pulled people in and he pulled Louis in and it was all over the moment it began.)

“Love you,” Louis cried to the ceiling as Harry sank deep inside him. “Love you, love you, love you.” And Harry wanted love; he craved love, and he leaned over Louis with his sweaty chest on Louis’s spine and he told him,

“And I love you.”

 

In the lobby Sophia waited alone. “The tour bus is waiting,” she said, and this one looked just like the one they left behind at home. “The boys are already inside.” Sophia took their bags and stuffed them in the compartment under the bus and she climbed up the steps to lead them inside. Jeff was gone and Harry was painfully reminded as he entered the bus to see Nick behind the wheel, smiling with his dark hair flopped over one eye as he greeted Harry and Louis. 

“Are you okay?” Sophia asked him, and Nick nodded.

“Hey, I’ll give anything a try once,” he tried to joke. “If I crash it, what do you say you try next?” And Sophia cuffed him on the ear and he laughed, telling her he was only messing with her, but she was angry and tired already and she rolled her eyes at him until he assured her he was going to be careful; he had done this before. 

“Once,” he said to Harry with a wink once Sophia was out of earshot. Sophia showed them around the bus, breezing past the boys and Eleanor as they played Go Fish in the living area. This bus was strange on the inside, set up differently than what Harry was used to, and there was an area with a TV and a couch that their bus from back home did not have. Beyond that there was a kitchenette and beyond that were the bunks lining both walls. And Harry’s was in the back still, this time separated from the rest of the bunks by a door instead of a curtain. 

“The boys can only complain so many times about the noises you two make before I need to make a change,” Sophia joked lightly, and as she offered Harry a watery smile he wanted to tell her he appreciated her attempt to pretend nothing had changed. But he didn’t and it had and when Sophia rejoined Nick in the front of the bus and told him they could get out on the road Harry followed her to the living area and collapsed in the couch on the opposite side of the bus from where the rest of the band sat. Not one of them looked up at him. He expected it but it still hurt and Louis caught him staring across the bus and he flashed Harry a devilish grin. 

“Let’s get their attention,” Louis suggested, and without hesitating he snapped open Harry’s belt buckle and then the button of his jeans. 

“What are you doing?” Harry tried to ask, but he didn’t get a chance. Niall asked for him and Harry jerked his head up from Louis’s searching hand to look up at Niall. 

“Nothing!” Harry said. Niall looked like he wanted to shout at them or laugh at them and couldn’t decide which, but Harry was happy enough that Niall was not ignoring him to not care which it was. 

“Get in the back if you want to get off,” Niall said, waving his hand towards the back of the bus as Liam sat beside him trying not to laugh. It came as no surprise that Zayn was stoic, unmoving as he waited for his bandmates to stop talking to Harry and keep playing with the cards they held in their hands. 

“I thought you might want to watch,” Louis shot back. 

“Not in a million years,” Liam said, his mouth twitching up into an unmistakable smile. “The sounds are bad enough.”

“Don’t stop!” Eleanor cried, tossing her hair over her shoulder as he cried to the steely gray of the ceiling. “Right there, right there!” And the dam broke and Harry did not care at all that they were making fun of him as long as they were still his friends. Liam laughed hard enough to drop his cards and Niall slapped Eleanor on the back, making hers spill onto the floor. 

“I don’t sound anything like that,” Louis said. 

“I know,” Eleanor choked through tears of laughter. “I was imitating Haz!” 

“Oh, very funny!” Harry crowed, and she threw a card across the aisle of the bus at him that hit him square in the chest. 

(This was good, they were still okay, and as long as there was laughter on the bus and laughter between them everything was salvageable.)

But Zayn dropped his cards onto the table and gathered up Eleanor’s from the floor and he shuffled the deck together, not making eye contact with anyone as he frowned. He was tough and he was tougher to crack, his anger brewing inside him long after everyone else managed to let it go, but that was okay. It was all right. As long as everyone else was on his side Harry could handle waiting for Zayn to warm up to him again.

(He would; he always did.)

He was okay and they were okay and Harry pretended not to feel the effects of the alcohol he downed last night, his head pounding and his stomach turning at the thought of food even as it growled. He was okay. He had to be. Because they had shows to play and he had a fucking stage to conquer.

Nothing was going to stop him, not now and not ever.

(Even if after this tour ended…he stood onstage alone.)


	18. Chapter 18

It took three days and two shows for Zayn to look Harry in the eye again. The two of them were stubborn, neither one of them relenting, but once Zayn asked Harry to hand him the package of guitar strings by Harry’s amp it was over. The tension was gone and Zayn almost smiled as he thanked Harry and walked away to work on his guitar. It was not much but from Zayn it was everything. 

“I love you!” Harry called to him across the stage they were set to play in two hours to another sold out crowd, and Zayn shot back,

“Don’t push it!” So maybe they were always meant to have roadblocks along the way and maybe they were always going to bicker and fight and say things they could never take back. But maybe that was okay. Harry had no idea anymore what was right and what was wrong and all he could do was hope he would figure out the answer as he went along. 

(Wasn’t that what being in a band was all about?)

Amsterdam went off without a hitch and Harry did not let anyone see the bloody tissue he kept in the back pocket of his jeans. (His throat did not bother him so much anymore; he was used to the pain and it was not as bad as it used to be regardless of the incessant raw edge.) After three shows in Amsterdam, The Troves moved on to Dusseldorf and from there it was an agonizing ten hour drive to Milan. Halfway through the ride Nick switched places with Niall at the wheel, rolling his neck from the long hours of sitting perfectly still, and Niall complained but he took the wheel and Nick went to his bunk to take a nap. Niall was a skilled driver but the tour bus was a different beast from a car or a truck and Sophia sat at his side, her face tight, as he drove down the busy highway as best he could.

Not one person had said Jeff’s name in days. Harry supposed he understood; no one wanted to mention him and risk starting another fight. The Troves were perfectly balanced on a tightrope, dangerously close to tipping off either side, but as long as no one breathed a word they were perfectly all right. It was no way to live. But it was all they were going to get. They walked on eggshells around each other and hardly spoke at all on the long, long ride to their next three shows. 

(Already January was half over, giving them ten weeks left until the end of the tour.) 

Harry was not going to think about the end. Worrying about the future never got him anywhere and he was going to fucking die trying to shake the fears from deep inside his head. (When Louis was asleep one night Harry left him in bed and took a long gulp from the bottle of spiced rum Zayn left on the counter in the kitchenette and it burned as it went down but it warmed his stomach and eased enough of the fear eating at him to help him sleep curled up at Louis’s side.)

They were three hours outside of Milan when Harry heard Zayn’s phone ringing from the kitchenette. Harry and Louis were in the back of the bus in their bed, each of them with an earbud in one ear as they lay together and listened to the playlist Louis like to play while he fell asleep. Harry lifted his head from his pillow and took his earbud out to listen in on Zayn’s conversation as he answered the phone. 

“Hello?” Zayn called. He had a loud phone voice, big and echoing to the back of the bus, and Harry heard every word. “Yes,” Zayn said. “Yes, of course. Jesus, hi.” And his voice got quieter as he stood and headed towards the front of the bus where he might have thought no one could hear him. But the bus was not big enough for there to be anywhere to hide. Harry sat up and Louis did, too, Louis dropping his head onto Harry’s shoulder and sighing in his ear.

“What?” Zayn asked from far away. “No, no, are you…are you sure?” Whatever it was, whoever was calling, Zayn sounded scared out of his mind. (Harry should have gone to him and asked him what was wrong; weeks ago he might have done just that.) Harry did nothing as he listened in and he was sure every person on the bus was doing the same. 

“No, of course I believe you, Jesus,” he said. “No, I know. I get it, okay? Okay.” He stopped and he listened and Harry’s stomach dropped when he said, “No, I’m coming. I’m coming! I want to be there, I’m fucking coming.” He stopped to listen and Harry stopped breathing, his hands shaking as Louis raised his head to look up at him.

“Haz,” Louis whispered. “Hey, don’t panic…” But Zayn hung up the phone and Harry was up before Louis could pull him back and Harry burst from his bedroom at the back of the bus the same moment Eleanor and Liam headed towards Zayn from the kitchenette. From where he stood Harry could see the shock on Zayn’s face; he was deathly pale and he sank to the floor of the bus, too stupefied to make his way to a seat in the living area. 

“Zayn,” Liam said, reaching him first and laying a hand on Zayn’s shoulder. “Zayn, what’s wrong? Where are you going?” Harry and Louis met up with Eleanor at Liam’s side and Zayn looked wearily up at Liam, dark eyes wide. 

“What is it?” Liam asked.

And Zayn opened his mouth and he said, “It’s Pez. Perrie. She’s…fuck, she’s _pregnant_.” And he buried his face in his hands and Sophia was on them before Harry could draw breath.

“What?!” Sophia cried. “What are you talking about?” She took hold of Zayn’s shoulder and shook him but he did not look up at her. He sat perfectly still curled up on himself on the floor as Harry recalled the girl with multi-colored hairbands who had been a fucking blip in Zayn’s life, who was supposed to be nothing but a vague memory by now, and Louis had his hands at his mouth as Sophia tore Zayn apart.

“Are you fucking stupid?” Sophia asked. “Don’t answer that. How could you be so fucking stupid?! She’s a kid! A fucking kid!”

“Soph, hey,” Liam said. He put a protective hand on Zayn’s shoulder to stop Sophia from shaking him and he shook his head at her. “Let him fucking take it in, will you?” 

“I have to go,” Zayn said, voice ragged as he spoke into his knees. “She wants me there and I have to fucking go.”

“You’re not going anywhere!” Sophia snapped. “You have an obligation to your band and to your friends to finish this tour!” Her eyes were wild, her face twisted in pain and fury and bleak, dark sadness, and it was almost painful to look at her that way. 

“I have an obligation to my _kid_!” Zayn howled. “My fucking kid, oh my _God_.” If he was crying he was hiding it well but he sounded like he might break in two, his shoulders beginning to shake as he whimpered. 

“You don’t even know it’s yours; you’re not going off to run to some girl just because…”

“Fuck off!” Zayn cried. “You don’t know anything about her, shut your fucking mouth!”

“Don’t talk to her like that!” Liam snapped. Zayn raised his head and Harry had been right; tears stained his cheeks and his hair flopped over his face as he looked up at Sophia with agony lining his face. 

“She started it!” Zayn barked. “I gotta go, I gotta fucking go…” His lip quivered and he was going to lose it and Sophia was not helping, trying to kick at him when he would not look at her. Petulance did not look good on her and Louis stepped forward to try and pull her away.

“Soph, leave him be for a minute,” Louis cooed, and he was good and he was so gentle and Sophia let him pull her towards the living area to sink onto one of the couches against the wall. 

“Where are you going?” Liam asked, and he crouched at Zayn’s side to speak to him eye to eye. 

“To Pez,” Zayn said. “I have to…I have to be there for her, she was so scared to tell me and she’s fucking like…three months along and…fuck.” He squeezed his eyes shut as if that would make all the world vanish and Harry knew the feeling well. “I have to go home, to New York, and I have to be there for her. I won’t be like…like my fucking dad; I have no choice, I have to be there.” 

“You can finish the tour, man, can’t you?” Liam tried. Harry was useless and he stood by Liam’s side, doing nothing but watching the chaos unfold. He was either part of the chaos or he was fucking struck dumb and useless, there was no in between. 

“I have to go,” Zayn wailed. “Now. When w-we make it t-to Milan I gotta get on the f-first plane home. I don’t have a choice.” 

“Okay,” Liam said. “Okay, fine, say you go home. Will you come back to us and meet us on the road? We can do maybe tonight without you, man, but not the rest of the tour. Please tell me you’ll go see her and make sure she’s okay and then come back to us. We need you.”

“Zayn,” Harry said, and Zayn looked up to him with watery red eyes. “He’s right; we fucking need you. Please. You can’t leave us, not now.”

“Not everything is about you, Haz!” Zayn barked. “It’s my life and I have t-to go l-live it. I have to go, I’m sorry. I’m sorry, but this is too much. I want off.” 

“Zayn, why don’t you take a rest and calm down?” Liam asked. He tried to be gentle as he squeezed Zayn’s shoulders but he was not the gentle type and Harry could see the stress of comforting Zayn eating away at him in the hard way he set his jaw. “Think about this, sleep on it, take like fifteen shots, and after the show tonight you can tell us what you want to do. How’s that?” 

“I can’t,” Zayn moaned. “I wanted off a goddamn long time ago and don’t you p-pretend you didn’t, t-too. This is my stop and I’m fucking g-getting off.” 

And there it was. This was his out, this was his excuse, and this was going to be his goodbye. He was going to leave and The Troves were not The Troves without him and he fucking knew that but he was leaving anyway. He was leaving Harry alone and it didn’t fucking matter that this band had been their world for ten fucking years and it didn’t matter that he was Harry’s best friend in the entire world. Nothing mattered if Zayn was leaving and nothing mattered except the lines on his face and the way he stared at Harry like he had never been so scared in his life. 

“Zayn, please,” Harry said, not caring at all how pathetic he sounded as he pleaded; he was never going to let Zayn go without a fight. 

“Don’t beg me, Haz,” Zayn said. “Just don’t.” He shook his head and he tried to stand, his legs too wobbly to hold him as he fell back onto his ass on the floor. Liam offered him one hand and Zayn was too stubborn to take it, fighting his way to his feet alone, and he limped to the front of the bus to whisper in a bewildered Niall’s ear. 

“What are you doing?” Sophia called to him from where she sat hyperventilating in Louis’s strong arms on the couch. 

“I need off,” Zayn said. And Niall pulled the bus off the next exit, turning into the first empty parking lot he saw, and the moment he stopped the bus with a painful screech Zayn was at the door, pounding at it until Niall figured out how to slide it open. Zayn hopped off the bus and Harry and Liam and Eleanor and Sophia leapt up to watch him go from the wide windows of the bus. 

“Where is he going?” Sophia called to Niall. 

“I don’t know,” he replied. He twisted in his seat, his seatbelt digging into his neck, to look back at Sophia and shrug. “He just asked to get off and…”

“He says jump and you say how high?!” Sophia barked. “Christ, Niall, how could you just let him go?!” She ran, her high heels clicking, to the front of the bus to chase after Zayn. Niall let her off and she followed Zayn, shouting his name loud enough for Harry to hear. Louis joined him at his side and watched Sophia as she caught Zayn by the shoulder and yanked him back. Harry heard snippets of their shouted conversation 

(“I have to go; you don’t understand!”)

(“Not right now, you have a goddamn job to do!”)

and he watched them fight and he wondered why there was still a part of him that found all of this pain worth fighting through for the mess that was The Troves. 

Harry leaned on Louis to remind himself that Louis was still there. 

“I know,” Louis whispered before Harry had to breathe a word. Sophia grabbed for Zayn and he let her, her talons sinking into his arm, and she pulled him towards the bus and Zayn sagged as he let her win. Just like everyone else in the band, Zayn had no choice. 

Back on the bus Zayn walked straight to his bunk, head down, and Sophia followed him in.

“Back on the road, Niall,” she ordered with a snap of her fingers. “We’re going to be late.” 

“What’s happening?” Liam asked her as she flounced towards her own bunk.

“He’s playing tonight. And then he’s leaving,” she said. Just like it was easy. Just like it was nothing. And Liam’s jaw dropped and so did Harry’s as she tried to walk away like she had the goddamn right to leave them hanging like that. 

“Soph, don’t just walk away!” Liam snapped so Harry did not have to, and Sophia spun around on her heels to glare at them.

“What else can I say?” she asked. “He’s done and I’m not going to fight him. Haz can play his guitar parts, can’t you, Haz?”

“I can’t,” he replied without thinking. He had not touched a guitar in years, more years than he could count on both hands, and even if he tried he would never be able to replace Zayn. (No one could; they were done; they were finished.)

“What about you?” Sophia asked Eleanor, either grasping at straws or being an asshole; Harry did not know which. 

“I can’t,” Eleanor frowned. 

“Well, we’ll find someone else,” Sophia snapped. “Anyone else; it’s not like we couldn’t find someone who would sell their soul to play with you idiots!” 

Louis spoke up but his words got caught in his throat halfway out and if Sophia could hear him she did not let on. 

“What?” Harry asked him.

Louis cleared his throat and his cheeks turned pink as Sophia turned her glare on him. “I said I can play,” Louis breathed. 

Sophia scoffed but Liam’s eyes lit up and he said, “You can?”

“Yes,” Louis shrugged. “Not as good as Zayn but I used to play and I think I could…I think I could do it now.” He shrugged again like it was fucking nothing and Harry could hardly breathe for marveling at the mystery that was Louis. 

(There were so many things he did not know; far too much to be promising forever, but if they had forever at least he had the time to finally begin to learn.)

“Show me,” Liam said, and he was gone as he went to find Zayn’s acoustic guitar where it was stashed behind one of the couches on the wall. Louis wilted under Sophia’s gaze and Harry wanted to slap her for the way she made Louis shrink away but he couldn’t and he didn’t and he wouldn’t. Liam returned with Zayn’s guitar in both hands and he strapped it to Louis and stood back, spreading his arms wide.

“Show us what you got!” Liam said. And as an afterthought, “Please.” Louis looked at Harry and Harry smiled at him, leaning into him to press a kiss to his cheek. When he drew back Louis’s face had gone even pinker and he looked so drop dead gorgeous with a guitar slung across his shoulders that Harry found himself thinking about throwing Louis to the bus floor and ripping his clothes off piece by piece. 

(What was _wrong_ with him?)

“Go on,” Liam urged when Louis stood still, petrified and frozen. 

“What…” Louis gulped. “What do you want me to play?” 

“Something by The Troves,” Liam laughed, and Louis tried to laugh in return but the terror in his eyes kept it from sounding genuine. “What are you, shy?” Harry could have killed Liam for teasing Louis like this, making his eyes go wide as he stood before them, but Louis was stronger than Harry ever gave him credit for and he picked up the guitar from around his neck and held it in both hands.

“All right,” Louis said, and with shaking fingers he began to play. Harry perked up immediately as he recognized the song (one that did not hurt because it was one that Zayn did not help to write) and it was an old one Niall had helped him write a thousand years ago, one they had not played live in years. 

The sound filled the bus and Harry knew Zayn was listening, angry and tired and done, and it didn’t fucking matter. Because of course Louis would belittle himself, of course Louis would paint himself as not being so good, but he was perfect and he played the song well, tugging at the guitar strings with his gentle fingers and watching Harry anxiously for his reaction. And Harry was overjoyed, overwhelmed at the person before him. Louis was too much, Louis was so much more than he ever seemed, and Harry was going to get a lifetime to memorize every goddamn inch of him. 

Louis paused and Harry came back to life, breathing in as he realized he had been holding his breath, and Louis said, “This is the part where you come in.”

“Oh,” Harry said. “Oh, do you want me to sing?”

“Yes, please,” Louis said, shy and sly as he smirked up at Harry through his long, long eyelashes and kicked at the floor with one dirty sneaker.

“Okay,” Harry said. ( _Anything for you_.) He sat down on the couch and Louis sank down to sit at his side and from a different world than them Harry heard Sophia and Liam and Eleanor sink into the opposite couch to watch them, silent and open mouthed. 

“Should I start over?” Louis asked, and Harry was in awe, and he nodded and he told Louis to start from the beginning. Louis strummed at the guitar with his steady fingers and Harry could hardly breathe as he took in the warmth and the beauty that was written all over the love of his life. And this time when Harry was supposed to come in he was ready. He began to sing and it fucking hurt but Louis was far more graceful than he was and what ragged edges Harry had to his voice Louis fixed up with the easy way he played the guitar like he had been doing it all his life.

(He was a miracle; he was the fucking stars, and Harry was going to fight the rest of his life to make sure there was nothing left he had yet to know about him.)

“You’re an easy target,” Harry sang, “someone I can always find. You’re an easy goddamn target, but it’s so easy to be blind.” The song was a slow one but it was one with a hard message, angry and loud. Harry and Niall had written it after they had had a fight over some girl Harry couldn’t have remembered if he tried, using the lyrics to make up and move on like they used to be able to without even trying.

“I’m so tired of hunting you,” Harry sang as Louis played softly at his side. “The one I cannot find. I’m tired of hunting you now and I’m sick of being kind.” Harry was supposed to roar there, letting his voice fuzz his microphone, but this was no stage and this audience did not wait with bated breath, and Harry took the easy way out and he hummed instead, letting the sound of Louis strumming the guitar fill his head and ease the pain in his body. 

The song ended in no time at all and Louis fell silent and Harry fell silent the moment after, the sound of his voice fading as he closed his mouth, and Liam spoke up before Harry could even tear his eyes from the pink spots high on Louis’s cheeks. 

“Louis Tomlinson,” Liam said, “welcome to The Troves.” 

 

The tour bus pulled up in front of the concert hall in Milan and already there was a crowd, far bigger than Harry expected (he never got used to the crowds milling at all, kids sleeping in the goddamn street to be the first in line, and it was never going to get old to watch them panic as they caught sight of the bus). Zayn was off the bus before they had even finished pulling up to the curb and one by one The Troves and Sophia and the roadies hopped off behind him. Zayn did not stop to speak to the fans and neither did anyone but Harry, the band waving but too anxious to stop as they headed into the venue to set up the stage. 

“Sorry,” Harry said to the fans at the front of the line. “We had a long ride and they’re a little grumpy. You’re gonna have to settle for me.” The fans laughed, assuring him he was all they really wanted, and it was frigid out here in Italy, far from where Harry had ever been, and his hands were almost too numb to hold the pens and the markers passed into his fingers. 

“You look cute today, Lou,” a girl said, and Louis blushed and thanked her and that never, ever got old either, the fans falling in love with Louis just as quickly as Harry had. 

“Back off,” Harry teased. “He’s taken.” And the girls laughed and fell over themselves to take pictures with Harry and Louis, smiling from ear to ear, and Harry thought he must look much the same. 

(He was crazy; he was wild, and he felt in his goddamn bones how dangerous these highs were, getting too used to feeling warm that the moment he felt the chill in the air he began to panic and crawl out of his skin.)

He kissed Louis as they walked arm in arm up the stairs to the venue and from behind him he saw dozens of flashes go off as the waiting crowd took pictures in the dark with their phones. He did not mind; it was okay. They loved him and they loved his love and there was not much else he could ask them for. Louis opened up the door for him and together they walked through, out of the cold and into the warm and dark inside of a venue Harry had never seen. This one was small, smaller than the places they played in Vegas and Denver and New York, and that was all right by Harry. Here they had three shows in one week and here Harry felt good. He liked small spaces the best and he liked small people the best, Louis so tiny in his arms as he squeezed him to his chest before braving backstage. 

“Are you okay?” Louis asked, crushed to Harry’s chest. 

“Fine,” Harry replied.

(Zayn was done, Zayn was leaving, but maybe there was something Harry could do to make all of this okay.)

Harry and Louis found their way backstage and into complete chaos, Sophia scowling deeply as she fussed over Zayn. He weaved on the spot where he stood and Harry knew his stance well. He had to have been pounding shots from the bar in the back of the concert hall since the moment he stepped inside the venue, his eyes bleary and red as he let Sophia mess with his earpiece and with his messy hair. He was drunk and Harry felt a swell of pity that burned deep in his stomach; Zayn had suddenly had the weight of the world dropped onto his frail shoulders and he was going to collapse if given half a chance. 

Harry could help. He could try. 

“Soph, let me have him for a minute,” Harry said before he could change his mind. Immediately Zayn scowled and told him to fuck off just like Harry knew he would, but Harry said, “Never,” and Sophia let Harry have him. 

“What do you want?” Zayn slurred. He smelled like rum and he smelled like sweat and Harry took hold of his arm and pulled him away from the stage. Already the venue had let the fans inside and they stood at the barricade between the stage and the floor, talking loudly and singing along to the song that played over the loudspeaker. 

“What the fuck do you want?” Zayn asked again once they were out of earshot of anyone who could try and talk Harry out of whatever the hell he was about to do. 

(Maybe he had it in him to let Zayn go; maybe Zayn deserved to be set free.)

“I know more than anyone what it’s like to want to run,” Harry said. Zayn’s hair flopped over his face as he dramatically rolled his eyes, tossing his head and refusing to meet Harry’s gaze. “But you keep chasing me and I think I owe you one.”

“A million and one,” Zayn scoffed.

“A million and one,” Harry agreed. “I’m trying to give you one of them, you idiot.”

“You’re the fucking idiot,” Zayn snapped. Sober, his words would have hurt Harry like a goddamn knife, but he was drunk and Harry knew the feeling of wanting to say things that would dig in deep enough to hurt. He was okay. He was not going to take anything Zayn said to heart, not now. 

“Zayn,” Harry said. “I know you’re scared. It’s okay to be scared.” (Why couldn’t he take his own damn advice?)

“Shove it up your ass,” Zayn scowled. “I don’t want to hear this from you.”

“You don’t even know what I’m going to say.”

“You’re going to pretend you’re an expert at pain,” Zayn said. “Like you have any right at all to tell me you know how I feel. You don’t.”

“Maybe not exactly,” Harry said. “Why won’t you let me help you?”

Zayn smirked and it looked awful on him. “When have you ever let me help you?” he replied. 

“Never,” Harry admitted. 

“Great,” Zayn said. “So we’re done here. If you’ll get the hell out of my face, I have to go pull a Harry fucking Styles and puke my guts out in the bathroom.” He stomped away and Harry watched him go only for a moment before deciding to chase after him. He had to. He owed him. Harry followed Zayn into the bathroom and as Zayn heaved over the toilet Harry waited for him to finish with his arms crossed over his chest. 

“Fuck off,” Zayn said more than once. But Harry ignored him. He was not going anywhere, just like this goddamn band, and Zayn was leaving this room without listening to Harry over his goddamn cold dead body. Zayn wiped his mouth and flushed the toilet with the toe of his sneaker and he moved to the sink, splashing water over his cheeks.

“I’m going to be a fucking dad, Harry,” Zayn told him, looking at Harry behind him in the mirror. “You have no idea how I feel right now. Don’t pretend you do. It’s…it’s like nothing I’ve ever felt. Why can’t you just accept that this is the end for me?”

“I just can’t,” Harry said. Without Zayn there was no band and without the band there was no fucking Harry Styles. Zayn stared at Harry in the mirror and he steadied himself with both hands on the white, white sink. 

“I heard Lou playing my guitar,” he said. “He’s good. He’ll be a good replacement for me.” 

“No one could ever replace you, Zayn.” 

“I’m done, Haz. Jesus, I feel like I’m breaking up with you.” He turned away from Harry in the mirror to eye him face to face. And he looked at Harry and he felt so goddamn small and Zayn said, “Why can’t you accept that we’ve had a really great run? Besides, me leaving doesn’t have to be the end for you.”

“There’s no band without you,” Harry replied. 

“That’s not true.” Zayn looked like he wanted to hit Harry or hug him and he was struggling to decide which as he spoke. “The band has always been you, Haz, and as long as you’re there the band doesn’t have to die with me. Don’t put that much importance on me; I don’t deserve it.”

(This was all wrong; this was not how any of this was supposed to go, but Harry had nothing more to say and all he could do was wait for Zayn to make a move.)

“I want to end this on a good note,” Zayn said. “Please don’t make it hard on me.” And with that he pulled Harry to his chest and he was far stronger than Harry and there was no way he could have pulled away even if he wanted to. Through Zayn’s T-shirt Harry felt his heart beating and he wanted to take comfort in Zayn’s touch but he couldn’t think straight past the goodbye. 

(It was always goodbye, it was always, “I’m leaving,” and there was nothing Harry could do to slow the goddamn ride down for long enough to make it stop.)

Zayn held tight to Harry and the longer Harry thought about it the more he thought maybe he was a tether to Zayn as Louis was to him. Harry wanted nothing to do with the label of a savior but as long as Zayn held him he could be whatever Zayn wanted. 

“I’m sorry,” Zayn said. “For everything I said in London.”

“That’s all right,” Harry said. “It’s okay, really it is.” Because Zayn had spat at him that he was no good, that he did nothing but toss people away, but Harry understood because it was the goddamn truth. 

“I keep telling you things I should keep to myself,” Zayn said. His arms were too tight around Harry but it was okay; he was warm and he was okay. “I told you that you make people fucking fall in love with you and it’s true; I know I’ve been just a little bit in love with you for so damn long. And I shouldn’t even be saying that; it’s ridiculous. But you draw people in, Haz, and they…I get drunk off the way you make me feel. It’s stupid and I don’t love you the goddamn way Lou does, maybe, but I love you a lot more than I should.”

(This was wrong; Zayn was drunk and he was spilling far more than he should and Harry should shut him up before he fell apart.)

“I love you, too, Zayn,” Harry said. He tried to pull away (Zayn was sweaty and hot and too damn much) and Zayn was reluctant to let him go and Harry was so confused he may as well have been as drunk as Zayn for all the good his sobriety did him. Zayn pulled away and Harry let him go and Harry tried to smile up at him but Zayn would not look at him.

“If this is really it,” Harry said, “why don’t you go out there and give those kids the goddamn best show they have ever seen?” The ghost of a smile flitted across Zayn’s face but when he replied he said,

“I can’t.”

“Do your best, then.”

“I will.” Zayn looked like a dog lost in the rain, his head hung low and his body sagging as he sighed, and Harry was so goddamn sorry he couldn’t breathe but there was nothing he could do. He could not make Zayn unafraid of fatherhood and he could not take back the way he pulled Zayn in when they were kids and he was sorry that Zayn loved him above all other things. Zayn loved him and his love broke him and if Harry could make himself unlovable he would, hiding away where he could never hurt anyone again. 

(But he knew that about himself; he dragged people to him because he was a fucking heavy anchor and he pulled and he pulled and he pulled.)

“Are you ready to go out there?” Harry asked.

“No,” Zayn replied. “I won’t ever be. But the show must go on, right?” 

“Right.” Harry held open the bathroom door for Zayn and together they walked back towards the stage. Zayn trembled as he walked and Harry supported him with a hand on his sweaty back and the moment they entered backstage Sophia was on them. 

“Are you going out there or not?” she asked, and again Harry fought the urge to hit her. She was good and she was kind but she was of the same make as Harry; she was too stubborn and too harsh and Harry wanted to protect Zayn like he had always done for him.

(Even if it meant letting him go?)

Even if it meant letting him go. 

“We’re going out there,” Harry said, and Louis pushed his earpiece into his ear and kissed his eye and told him he loved him and maybe it was time Harry tried to ease away from all the overwhelming love he was given. It was too much and Harry could not repay it anymore. The fans loved him and Zayn (was a little bit in love with him) loved him and The Troves loved him and so did Sophia and so did Louis, pure and bright and warm, and it was too fucking much and Harry thought if he received another drop he could suffocate. 

( _What was wrong with him_?!)

“Kick ass, babe,” Louis said. He had no fucking clue that Harry was about to let Zayn go and he had no idea Harry was sinking, drowning in the way everyone and everything depended on him and for just a moment he thought he might give in.

(Let this be the end; Harry could not go on another moment.)

But he kissed Louis as hard as he could on the mouth and Louis was radiant as he beamed and how in the world could Harry ever break this boy’s heart? 

(He was going to; there was no point prolonging the inevitable.)

Harry should have told him it was over. He should have told him to go home and forget him (Harry could be a fucking blip in Louis’s life) and run while he still had the chance. But he didn’t. Harry could not fathom anymore a future without Louis in it and for love he could be cruel. He loved Louis with all he had, no matter how fucking little it was, and he couldn’t say goodbye. Not yet. Not yet. 

Louis asked him, “Why are you staring at me?” and Harry said,

“I’ll see you on the other side.”

“I’ll be there waiting,” Louis said with a grin. He kissed Harry again and the goddamn show must go on. Zayn began to strum the first chords of the opening song for the very last time and Harry was not ready to let him go. He was not ready for, “See you later; it was fun while it lasted.” If Harry was good at one thing it was refusing to let go and being too damn stubborn to try. (He was too scared; letting go meant change and change meant falling apart.)

“Promise?” Harry asked, and Louis was good and Louis nodded and Sophia pushed him onstage without giving Harry time to say everything he wanted to the boy he loved the most. He straightened up as the crowd caught sight of him and went insane, screaming his name like the always did as Zayn strummed his guitar. 

(They loved him; they loved him, and he could give nothing back.)

“Good evening, Milan!” Harry cried. He wrapped both hands around his microphone and he began to sing because the words on his tongue were all he had to offer. Hands reached for him and he could be brave and reach for them back if he wanted to. They deserved so much better than him, a man holding a fistful of bloody hearts in his hands that he squeezed dry and discarded in his wake. He drove Jeff to leave him and Zayn was next and all of this fell apart far faster than he could have ever seen coming. He was reckless with his heart and he was reckless with his body and the words his fans screamed back at him were amplified times a thousand as he sang them.

And maybe he should have told them; maybe he should have warned them that they were never going to see Zayn again. Maybe Zayn deserved a goodbye from the crowd that had loved him for years. But Harry was not going to give it to him. Goodbye meant giving up and Harry was going to treat this show as a _see you later_ instead. That way it would go down easy just like rum and that way it would be less painful than ripping off the bandage that was Zayn. He was a hurricane as he played, putting more power into it than he had in years, and the crowd ate it up.

They had no idea. Harry did not want to dwell on what they were going to say when they found out the truth. They were going to hate him. They were going to call him a traitor and a million nastier things and if Harry was braver he would have told them to put the blame on him. But he was not. He was going to let Zayn leave and he was going to let the fans blame Zayn for the way things had to be. In love Harry was selfish and cruel and there was nothing he could do to change the way the band was meant to fall to pieces. 

(It was inevitable; Niall and Liam were dominos, and they were going to fall after Zayn fell first because Harry knew them well enough to know they would be scared.)

The last song of the night was _Of the Color of the Sky_ , and Niall and Liam walked off the stage to thunderous applause as the spotlights swung around to focus solely on Harry and on Zayn as he swapped his electric guitar for the acoustic Eleanor handed him from backstage. And there it was. Zayn looked up at Harry and the look of sorrow on his face was almost enough to send Harry to his knees. It was too much; Zayn was long gone, and Harry looked at him for so long that he doubled and tripled before him as he stared. 

“Let’s make some noise for my best friend,” Harry said to the crowd. “My best friend of more than a fucking decade, Zayn _fucking_ Malik!” And the audience loved him and they screamed Zayn’s name and maybe it was Harry’s version of a goodbye or maybe it was his last ditch effort to reel Zayn back in. Either way, Zayn was pale as he waved to the crowd, his eyes focused on Harry and Harry alone. Harry could see Louis watching him from backstage, his baby blues wide and his knuckles in his mouth, and all at once Harry wanted to cry.

This was it. This was goodbye. The crowd began to chant, Harry taking far too long to count Zayn in and begin the song, and finally Harry tore his eyes from his best friend and he said,

“Thank you. This is our last song of the night; I hope you fucking love it.” He tapped his dirty sneaker on the floor and he counted Zayn in and as Zayn began to play Harry fought a wave of sorrow almost powerful enough to knock him off the stage. And Zayn felt it, too, he had to feel it. He stumbled once over the simple chords and Harry closed his eyes. 

(Too much, too fucking much.)

It was Louis’s song and Louis’s alone but Harry thought he would understand just this once if he lent the song to Zayn. In the last verse Zayn was ever going to get Harry sang,

“And Zayn, baby, this is a love song, but I’m bitter and stuck in the clouds.” And the crowd loved it; they ate it up, and Harry craned his neck to look back at Zayn and he was too busy looking at his shoes to notice. But the song drew to a close and Zayn wiped at his eyes and pretended he had not when he caught Harry watching him. 

( _Please let this be a see you later_.)

“Thank you,” Harry called to the crowd. “We love you, goodnight!” And he took his bow and Zayn took his and the moment the two of them were out of sight of the frantic audience Zayn pulled him into a bone crushing hug that lifted Harry off his feet. 

“You’re the biggest asshole in the whole fucking world, Harry Styles. You’re a regular goddamn menace.” But Zayn put him down and he pulled back and he had tears in his eyes and he mussed Harry’s hair and could not bite back the smile on his face. “I hate you,” Zayn said.

“I know,” Harry replied. Zayn feigned anger because it was easy and Harry understood. He could live with anger; the tears in Zayn’s eyes were harder to handle. But Niall and Liam came next, the both of them dripping sweat from the show, and they threw themselves at Zayn and wrapped him up in their arms. 

“Ah!” Zayn cried. “Get off!”

“Not a chance, babe,” Liam said. 

“Never,” Niall agreed. They were delirious with some strange emotion somewhere between agony and joy, laughing as Zayn threw them off. 

“We’re going to miss you, Zayn,” Niall said, and if this was goodbye it was not so bad as far as they went. It was almost easy, Zayn smiling through his tears, but Harry’s best friend had aged ten years in six months and the weight of the world held him down. 

“Yeah,” Zayn said. “Well I’m not going to miss you guys one bit.”

“Aww!” Niall and Liam teased at once, leaping again onto Zayn and taking hold of his shoulders to hop up on their toes and kiss his face. 

“Get off!” Zayn cried, but his fighting was half-hearted and he gave in quickly to the avalanche of hugs and kisses falling down on him. And Harry saw Sophia behind Zayn watching them give Zayn his Great Goodbye, and Harry was not surprised to see tears streaming down her face and making her mascara stain her cheeks black. He did not go to her; Louis did instead, and Harry watched her bury her face in Louis’s shoulder and wrap her arms tight around him. 

“Come on,” Niall said to Zayn hopping up to mess with Zayn’s hair. “Let’s go back to the bus and get so drunk we can’t remember why we’re crying.” 

On the bus Zayn took shots with Niall and Liam, Harry content to sit and watch, cradled in Louis’s lap. Harry was far too big to be sitting on Louis but he told him over and over he did not mind, Harry curled up with his knees to his chin as he watched Zayn drink away the hurt consuming him. Niall and Liam matched him shot for shot and Louis accepted every one that was pressed into his hand. Harry took sips from the shots offered to Louis and refused bottles of beer, the memory of his drinking back in London fresh in his mind. 

“Remember when we were playing a house show in San Francisco?” Niall asked, drunk enough to slosh the beer in his hand as he spoke to an even drunker Zayn. “And you…you fucking got slipped LSD and ended up swinging from the ceiling fan?”

“I was almost halfway to forgetting that,” Zayn slurred in reply. Harry laughed, tossing his head back to the ceiling, as the memory came back to him. That night was a million years ago, The Troves still too young to drink, and they had played some sketchy show at some kid’s house and they had gotten increasingly fucked up over the course of the night. It was not until morning when they woke up in various corners of the house in various stages of undress that they learned they had all been drinking water spiked with different drugs over the night. They had laughed it off in front of the homeowners but had run for the hills the moment they were paid, laughing until they couldn’t breathe over what had happened. 

They had been through a lot together, The Troves had, and Harry was lying to himself as he tried to pretend he was not going to miss it. 

“Remember when we almost got shot in Brooklyn?” Liam asked. 

“And we almost got arrested!” Niall replied. Harry leaned his head on Louis’s and he watched his best boys laugh on the couch and he wondered how the hell he was going to live without them. 

 

In the morning Zayn packed his bags slowly, nursing a hangover and a broken heart. Sophia had offered to get Zayn a cab to the nearest airport but The Troves wanted to give him his Great Goodbye and there was no fighting with them and Sophia quickly gave in. Nick grumbled at having to drive the tour bus all the way to the airport but he was good and he was kind and it only took a bribe of Sophia buying his lunch on the drive for him to stop complaining and get behind the wheel. 

The Troves did not grow somber again until the airport loomed out of the foggy morning and all of it became real. 

“Wow,” Niall said. “This is it.”

“Yeah,” Zayn said with a gulp. He was pale and shaky and Harry knew the feeling. He wrapped an arm around Zayn’s middle and rested his head on his shoulder, trying his best to lend some comfort when there was really none that he could give. “Get off,” Zayn said, he didn’t mean it and Harry stayed exactly where he was. The bus screeched to a slow and painful stop and every face on the bus turned to look across the vast parking lot at the airport in the distance. 

“Let’s get this over with,” Zayn said. His voice was gruff to hide the fact that he, just like everyone else, had just gotten hit with a wave of panic at the sight of what made all of this too real. Zayn picked up his duffel bag and he headed towards the door, Nick hesitating for just a moment before opening up the door and letting Zayn step out onto the pavement. One by one all the family Zayn had followed him out onto the icy pavement of the parking lot. Fog rolled across the tarmac and the bite in the air sent a shiver rolling down Harry’s spine, but he would have stood there in the bitter cold forever if that was what Zayn asked of him.

“Let’s just get it _over_ with,” Zayn said again. And his long legs began to move and Harry had to jog to keep up with him and he was losing his breath but so was Zayn. The Troves and the roadies and Sophia and Louis followed close behind and not one person spoke until they stood at Zayn’s gate. His flight was to touch down in London and then take him home to JFK Airport where Perrie and his future family awaited him. Zayn had never looked so scared in his entire life, stiff as he said his goodbyes. His flight was not leaving for another hour but he rushed through hugs and kisses and near tears from the roadies and from The Troves and from Sophia. It was not until Louis stood on his tiptoes to wrap his arms around Zayn’s neck and Harry locked eyes with him over Louis’s head did Zayn let his lip quiver and his resolve fall apart. 

“Fuck,” he barked, and he squeezed Louis so tight he made a noise like a mouse in pain. “Sorry,” he said. “I’m going to fucking miss you, that’s all.” And he let Louis go and he stood before Harry, standing tall like he always did but looking small enough to shrink away into nothing. “Haz,” he said, and Harry stepped into his waiting arms and tried to squeeze the life from him. He put all the words he could into the brief hug, things he never said like, “Thank you for saving my life,” and “This will never be the same without you,” and “Good luck, above everything else.” 

(Zayn probably knew it all already without Harry having to say it out loud.)

Zayn pulled away and he wiped at his nose with the back of his hand and he said, “I guess I’ll see you later, then.” And Harry wanted to cry but he wanted to beg Zayn to stay more and neither of those things were what he was able to do. So he looked up at his best friend in the entire world and he said,

“Not if I see you first.” And Zayn laughed because Zayn always laughed and he waved goodbye and Harry watched him go through the terminal and around the corner and out of sight. It was a long moment before he could breathe again to walk away. 

 

The show must go on and that would never, ever change. Nick and Niall took turns on the long drive to the arena in Milan and once again they unpacked the bus and set up the stage while Harry tried to keep Louis from stepping out onto the stage and seeing just how vast the empty seats looked from where he would stand. He was nervous, gnawing at his lip and pacing with his hands in his pockets, and he scowled and told Harry he was not helping when the only thing he said to try and help was,

“Just think of all the groupies you’re going to get when they see how hot you look onstage.” 

“I’m no Zayn” Louis said, and already his name stabbed Harry like a knife to the gut. He was gone and there was no bringing him back and he was on a plane back home and Harry was not sure if he was envious or bitter or both as he imagined the life Zayn was walking headfirst into. 

“No,” Harry said, “but you’re Louis fucking Tomlinson! You’re sex personified, charismatic and dripping with charm, and…”

“Shut _up_ ,” Louis moaned, covering his ears to hide away from Harry’s teasing. 

“I’m sorry,” Harry said. He took hold of Louis’s hand and he squeezed and Louis looked so small standing by Zayn’s beat up old guitar that Harry thought he might disappear. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.” 

“You look scared.”

“I might be sick,” Louis amended.

“What can I do to make it easier for you?” Harry asked, and Louis offered him a wry smirk and shrugged and said,

“Gimme a backstage blowjob and we’ll talk.” 

And Harry laughed and said, “Done.” 

He dragged a weakly protesting Louis by the hand towards the long hallway in the back corner of the stage, leading to a back exit where the fans would not see them at the end of the night. The hall was deserted, the blood red peeling paint on the walls cast in shadow by the lack of light, and Louis stumbled over his own sneakers in the dark and bumped hard into Harry. 

“Sorry,” Louis said.

“Don’t worry about it, babe,” Harry replied. Maybe Louis was the one who was charismatic and charming and sex personified but Harry knew a thing or two about charisma himself. Louis choked when Harry slammed him into the wall, deep enough in the shadows that anyone walking by close to the stage would never see them. 

“Ow,” Louis gasped, his sneakers sliding on the tile floor as Harry lunged for his throat. And his cry of pain turned to a moan and Harry dragged his tongue up the hollow of Louis’s throat, his skin hot and his breath catching as he whimpered. “Fuck, Haz,” he breathed. 

“I know,” Harry said, “I know.” He pressed messy kisses into Louis’s throat, kissing up to his jaw and biting at his earlobe. Louis was pliant in his hands and Harry was sure as hell going to take advantage of it.

“Should I mark you, baby?” Harry breathed in Louis’s ear. “Should I make sure every person in that goddamn audience knows that you’re mine?” Louis nodded, desperate for Harry’s lips, and the whimper that escaped him as Harry sucked at his neck was pure goddamn desire. Already Harry was impossibly hard, grinding up on Louis’s thigh, and Louis said his name over and over in between sharp intakes of breath. 

“Haz,” he breathed. “Fuck, Haz.” He took hold of Harry by his hair with both hands and it fucking hurt when he pulled but Harry (was very, very much alive) lived for this pain and he moaned at the tug of Louis’s fingers. “Want you,” Louis moaned. “Want you, want you.” But Harry knew a thing or two about sex if he knew anything at all and he was not going to give Louis what he wanted without a fight. (He was going to make Louis forget the fear of stepping out onstage; he was going to make Louis forget his goddamn name.)

“I know,” Harry told him. He sucked at the soft skin below Louis’s jaw and Louis tipped his head back to give Harry more to touch, more to kiss, more to lick. He squirmed beneath Harry’s hands pressing him to the wall by his shoulders, writhing as Harry kissed his way down to his collarbone. 

“Hazza,” Louis gasped. He fisted Harry’s hair and he bucked his hips into Harry’s, whining in the back of his throat, but Harry was not ready to give in. He reveled in teasing Louis mercilessly, loving the way he called him _Hazza_ like he had a lump in his throat. His skin tasted sweet and he was all heat and fire and cinnamon and Harry slipped his hands from Louis’s shoulders to his hips. 

“Yeah,” Louis breathed. “Fuck, yeah.” Harry yanked Louis to him, their bodies colliding violently, and he sucked bruises into Louis’s skin for all the damn world to see. 

“Mine,” Harry grunted with his lips searching for Louis’s. 

“Yours,” Louis agreed as their mouths crashed together. “Yours, yours.” He tasted so fucking sweet and he was heat and he was warmth and Harry held tight to his hips to keep him from bucking up against him. Harry was in control and Harry was going to give him exactly what he wanted but not just yet. 

“Please,” Louis pleaded as Harry dug his fingers into his hips. 

“Shh,” Harry said. Louis’s lips were soft but his body was not, all sharp angles as he lunged for Harry again and again. He whined, growling against Harry’s lips, and Harry grinned as the two of them grappled for control. 

(He was hot; he was so fucking hot, and he was perfect as he squirmed in Harry’s hands.)

“Hazza, Hazza, you have to _touch_ me,” Louis cried. And Harry pulled back away from his desperate mouth and he raised one hand and pressed his palm to Louis’s lips. 

“Shh,” Harry said. “Shh.” Louis looked at him with fiery eyes, going limp as Harry held one hand over his mouth, and the way he looked at Harry was enough to scatter his brain. 

(Who was trying to comfort who here?)

“Quiet,” Harry said, and no one was going to hear them back here against the wall but Louis nodded and Louis was beauty and Louis was grace and when Harry lowered his hand to squeeze Louis through his sinfully tight leather pants he tossed his head back to the ceiling but not a sound escaped him. He was good, he was so fucking good, and he closed his eyes and opened his mouth and Harry slipped open the button of his pants and he whined, low and husky. 

“Shh,” Harry said. “Shh.” He dropped to his knees and Harry fucking Styles bowed down to no one but he sure as hell let his knees hit the floor for Louis anytime he wanted him. Louis did not let go of his hair for a goddamn moment, loosening his grip as Harry hit the floor but twisting his fingers up the moment Harry reached for the waistband of his underwear. 

“Fuck,” Louis cried, and Harry tugged at the coarse hair on his stomach to quiet him. He was hot, he was so fucking hot, and the way he moved was filthy as his weak knees made him graceless. 

“Shh,” Harry reminded him once more. With careful fingers he slid Louis’s pants down to his thighs and slipped his fingers into his underwear and let those follow. Louis was just as hard as Harry, panting as he pleaded with him to take him, take him, take him. Harry did not shush him anymore. He held tight to Louis’s hips, his thumbs digging in to the soft skin over his jutting bones. And Louis hit his head on the wall for whimpering to the ceiling and he was warm, warm, warm in Harry’s hands. 

“Love you,” Harry breathed.

(Who lent comfort to whom here?)

“Hazza,” Louis cried out in reply. “Touch me, touch me.” He was gorgeous as he whined, Harry looking up at the simple beauty of his writhing body and the curve of his throat as he stared up at the white tiled ceiling. Harry was never going to deserve him, not ever, and he couldn’t fight the desire burning like a flame deep in his stomach anymore and he pressed his lips to the tip of Louis’s perfect, rosy cock and lapped at the pre-cum glistening in the near total darkness. 

And Louis came undone. His sneakers skidded on the floor as he fought to regain the balance Harry’s lips drained from him, and Harry took him deep into his mouth and looked up at him to watch him moan. 

“Fuck, Hazza,” he said. “So, so good.” Harry’s head ached from Louis yanking at his hair but he didn’t really mind. Louis’s touch lent him much needed comfort and Harry hoped his mouth did the same for Louis. He tasted sweet and the nonsense tumbling from his parted lips was sweeter. He whimpered and moaned, Harry fighting the urge to let his eyes roll back in pleasure as he tasted every goddamn inch of Louis that he could. 

“Love you,” Louis said. “I love you, I love you.” He rolled his hips and Harry pressed his nose into the coarse dark hair right between them, letting the sweet scent of Louis be his entire world as his eyes slipped closed. 

“God,” Louis whined. “So…fucking…good.” His knees trembled and he held steady as he could, using Harry as his anchor to keep him upright as he swayed his hips with the motion of Harry’s lips stretched tight around him. Louis picked up speed and his breath caught in a gasp in his throat and Harry was hard, hard, hard in his jeans but it didn’t fucking matter. All that mattered was Louis and the goddamn comfort a little backstage fucking could give to the most beautiful boy in the world as he steadied himself in preparation for his debut onstage. Harry could do that; he could not offer much but he could suck Louis off in the dark as his knees ached and his mind raced and Louis bucked relentlessly against his lips. 

“I’m gonna…” Louis breathed, his fingers digging painfully into Harry’s scalp. “Fuck, baby, I’m gonna…” He tried, he tried, but Harry made him breathless and he could not speak, pulling his lip between his teeth as he came across Harry’s tongue, hot and thick, and Harry swallowed him down because it was all that he could give. 

“Fuck,” Louis gasped once more, and as Harry pulled away and wiped at his lip with one thumb Louis finally let go of his hair and slid to his ass on the floor. “So…good,” he breathed. His cheeks were pink, his chest heaving, and he looked so goddamn good Harry thought he might cry. His pants and his underwear were in a mess around his thighs and if the cold tile floor on his bare ass bothered him he did not let on. 

“So,” Harry said, breathing a little harder himself as he watched Louis try and gather up his senses. “Are you ready to go out there and kick some ass?”

“Yeah,” Louis breathed. “Yeah, I think I’m gonna give it a go.” Harry clambered to his feet and Louis eyed his bulge through his jeans as he stood, Louis’s tongue poking out between his teeth. 

“Not now, you horny bastard,” Harry teased as he offered Louis his hand. 

“Shut up,” Louis replied. He took Harry’s hand and his legs quaked beneath him as he stood and he looked sheepishly up at Harry and he said, “You’re damn good at sucking dick, Harry Styles, and I can’t believe I keep finding things you’re amazing at.” He offered a meek grin, lopsided and toothy, and Harry shoved him playfully across the hall and Louis shoved him back. He pulled his pants up and buttoned them up and swatted Harry away when he lunged forward and unbuttoned them again. 

“You can suck my dick again later, you horny fuck!” Louis shot at him, and Harry tossed his head back to laugh because he sure as hell deserved that.

“Yeah, yeah,” Harry said. “Now, what do you say we introduce the crowd to the newest member of the team?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy holidays, everyone. As always, message me on tumblr at ourl0veisgod with anything at all!


	19. Chapter 19

The bravado Louis showed back in the dark hallway diminished as quickly as the fresh bruises Harry had given him bloomed the closer he got to the stage. Sophia hovered nearby, gnawing at her fingernails despite the pretty pink manicure she sported, and Nick passed Louis his earpiece and helped him push it into place. 

“You’re going to be fine,” Nick said, and Harry was grateful for the encouraging words he passed on to Louis. Eleanor told him the same thing as she strapped Zayn’s guitar to Louis’s body and adjusted the strap (it hit Harry with a pang that Zayn had a good few inches on Louis and watching Eleanor adjust the strap to fit Louis was nothing short of a stab to the heart). 

“You’re going to be fine,” she said. “Trust me. We all get the jitters, sweet thing. Trust me.” She slapped Louis on the back and winked at Harry when Louis looked away. The Troves loved Louis and so did Sophia and it overwhelmed Harry as they dashed about Louis like miniature tornadoes, telling him he was going to be all right and patting him on the back as they went by. 

(All they did was give and give and give and Harry could try his whole life and never match it.)

Liam and Niall took the stage and the crowd began to scream. (This was the part that Zayn should have been up there to begin to strum, waiting for Harry to join them onstage.) Louis looked at Harry with wide, wide eyes, dwarfed by the guitar strapped tight to his body, and he gulped and Harry offered him all he could. He kissed him, soft and sweet, and when he pulled back Louis gave him a watery smile. 

“You can do this,” Harry told him. 

“I know I can,” Louis replied, and he pushed Harry towards the stage. With one long look back at the tiny boy carrying Zayn’s guitar Harry turned towards the stage and made his way to his microphone. They had a plan, carefully written out by Sophia, and Harry shouted into his mic,

“Good evening, Milan!” for the second time in two nights. “I know you’re wondering,” he said, trying not to let the crowd see a hint or a sign of a waver, “where our good friend Zayn is.” The crowd screamed for him and Harry wished desperately he was there to hear it. But he swallowed hard and he said, “Zayn had a family emergency and had to leave us for a little while.” The gasps and groans that escaped the audience were ten times what Harry expected, the front row dropping their jaws in disbelief. 

“I know,” Harry said, arms out towards the restless crowd. “But trust me, we’re going to be all right because we’re all in this together.” Niall caught his eye and the look he gave him was hard, halfway between scolding him and telling him to be careful. Harry had seen the same look enough times for a lifetime and he tried to smile at Niall and bring back the familiar beatific Niall grin. It did not come and it didn’t come as a surprise to Harry. 

“Anyway,” he said, addressing the front row because it was far easier than acknowledging there were thousands of buzzing bodies beyond them. “We’re thrilled to introduce our guitarist for the night, for the rest of the tour, Louis Tomlinson!” And Harry turned from his mic to turn towards Louis, who stepped onstage after a gentle nudge from Sophia that almost sent him falling to his knees. He looked out into the crowd like an animal about to be run over by a car and Harry wanted to tell him the feeling went away but Louis was smart enough to know that at least for Harry, it never did. The crowd went mental and Louis looked shocked for a moment before he managed to rearrange his features into a bemused, beautiful grin. He offered the crowd a bashful wave and the screaming got even louder, Harry’s ears ringing from the sound. 

“So you’ve heard of him, then?” Harry teased at the crowd, the front row bouncing up and down as they fawned over Louis just like Harry knew they would. They began to scream his name and Louis blushed, his cheeks going pink just like they did in the dark of the hallway, and Harry clapped him on the back and said, “Knock them dead, Lou.” Louis was terrified, eyes wide, but he took his place onstage and he held the guitar in both hands and slowly he began to play. 

And the crowd went fucking insane. They screamed for Louis, cheering him on, and Louis looked at Harry for help but there was nothing Harry could do. Louis was the charismatic one, after all, and he could play the crowd any way he wanted. All he had to do was learn how. Harry tore his eyes from Louis (it was damn near impossible and when he turned to face the crowd again the eyes that were usually all over him were firmly on Louis) and he waited for his turn to come, tapping his sneaker on the stage to the beat of Louis strumming the guitar. 

And he began to sing and Louis played at his side, flawless and like he was fucking born to be up there. It was miraculous, Louis far more skilled than he played himself down to be, and Harry caught Niall’s eye from his other side and finally Niall grinned. 

“He’s fucking good,” Niall mouthed at him, and Harry nodded and tried his best to not let Louis distract him as he sang. He was fucking good and Harry owed him the world for stepping in to take Zayn’s place onstage. Maybe they were not meant to play without Zayn but maybe his departure didn’t have to be the end of the goddamn world. Maybe they could really pull this off, dusting themselves off after the detonation that was Zayn to come out on the other side better for it.

(Harry was loyal to a fault but maybe it was time to change that.)

The first sang came to a close and for a split second the audience hung in perfect silence, still and quiet, and then they erupted. They screamed for Louis, reaching out for him, and Harry was so goddamn proud of Louis he could have cried. The next time he chanced a glance at him he was smiling weakly, warm and alive, with pink spots high on his cheeks. He caught Harry staring and he dropped Zayn’s guitar, letting it swing from his neck, and he raised his hands to his chest and flashed Harry a shaky heart he shaped with his fingers. And the front row saw and it didn’t fucking matter; they exploded in a flurry of camera flashes and screams at the sight of Louis’s bravery, letting the whole damn world know exactly how he felt. 

And Harry was brave in some ways and he watched Louis smile as he stepped closer to his microphone and told him loud enough for the whole arena to hear, “I love you, too.” 

It was impossible for Harry to keep his eyes from Louis as The Troves played on. He stole glances during particularly difficult guitar parts in the hopes that Louis would have his head down in concentration and would not notice him staring, but Louis caught him every time and offered tiny smiles. They were nothing like the smiles Harry was accustomed to, tired and wan, but if something was wrong Louis was powering through and Harry was not in a place to pause and ask him. And finally Niall and Liam left the stage, giving Louis twin pats on the back on their way off, and Nick came from backstage and helped Louis switch to Zayn’s acoustic guitar for the last song of the night. 

Louis’s song. 

Harry met Louis’s blue, blue eyes and Louis looked just a little bit afraid as Nick adjusted the strap on the beat up old acoustic and gave him a thumbs up as he dashed off the stage. All at once Harry thought this might be too much for him to handle, handing the waiting audience a moment far more intimate than anything Harry had ever given them before. But it was far too late to change his mind now and Louis was gorgeous as his parted lips moved to ask,

“Are you ready?” 

“Born ready,” Harry shot back. 

“Kiss him!” somebody screamed from the front row, and Harry waved their words away without looking at them. But just like the cries of, “Look at us!” from back home once it was out there the crowd grew restless, and one after the other the front row fell like dominos as they began to chant.

“Kiss him!” they cried. Louis was shocked, his tousled hair falling over his face, and it was true that Harry wanted nothing more than to (marry) kiss him right the hell in front of everybody. But Louis was timid in some ways and he shook his head, beginning to strum the opening chords of the song Harry had written for him so, so long ago. 

“Kiss him?” Harry asked the crowd, laughing into his mic so it echoed across the vast room. “Come on, now, he’s not a monkey in a cage for you to stare at!” He teased them and they went crazy, screaming even louder than Harry thought possible. 

“Kiss him!” the audience cried. They were persistent and their shouting pounded through Harry’s head. And he shrugged at Louis and Louis shrugged back, utterly perplexed, and Harry stepped away from the mic and towards (his fiancé) Louis. Behind him he heard cheers and frantic screaming and the sound of a thousand people hopping up and down to get a better view. 

“Kiss me, you fool,” Harry said, and he took Louis’s face in his hands and tried to give him the goddamn sweetest kiss of his life. His lips were soft, soft, soft and the audience erupted once again in a frenzy and from behind Louis Harry saw Sophia rolling her eyes at him backstage but what did that really matter? She loved him and so did the crowd and so did Louis, who stood before him with his cheeks so red he could catch fire, but there was no mistaking the timid smile he hid just beneath the surface. And the show must go on and Harry lunged again for his microphone, shouting to the crowd,

“All right, all right, calm down, you horny fucks! You got your show; go home!” He waved them away but they stayed exactly where they were; no one here was going to miss Louis’s song if the place was burning down. “All right, Lou,” he said, “Are you ready to go?” And from behind him Louis began to play _Of the Color of the Sky_ once more and Harry wrapped his hands around his microphone and leaned closer to the crowd. 

(And Harry did not believe in magic and he did not believe in fate but the moment he shared with Louis up onstage was the closest thing to something magical Harry had ever felt.)

Together Harry and Louis sounded perfect and Harry marveled at the thought that Louis could stand behind him and play his songs forever. He never, ever had to let him go and it didn’t matter that Zayn was gone or that Zayn was never coming back. Louis was good and Louis was brave and Louis was all Harry needed. And Harry sang along with the crowd and he gave Louis the same comfort he had given Zayn by singing,

“And Louis, this is a love song, but I’m bitter and stuck in the clouds,” and like fucking clockwork the crowd before him began to scream. In a blur Harry finished the song and in a blur he took a bow and in a blur he took out his earpiece and he walked offstage. Louis was long gone by the time he joined Sophia and the rest of the band backstage and Sophia told him with wide eyes,

“He’s in the bathroom.” So maybe Louis was born to be onstage but maybe he had the same fears as Harry. That was all right; Harry could ease some of that if comfort was what Louis needed. But Harry headed towards the bathroom and Sophia caught his arm and she said, “He asked me to tell you not to follow him.”

“What?” Harry asked. She looked at him like she was sorry and more than anything he wanted that look to go away; what did she have to be sorry for?

“Don’t worry,” she said. “I think he’s just a little overwhelmed.”

“I have to go see, then,” Harry said, but again Sophia took hold of one sweaty arm and insisted he stay put. 

“He’ll come out when he wants to, Haz,” she said, speaking like she fucking knew something he didn’t, and he looked at her and tried to read the expression on her face.

“What happened?” he asked, but she only shook her head. “What happened, Soph?” he asked again. He wanted to shake her, worry digging talons deep into his chest, but all he could do was look at her and wait for her to tell the truth. 

“I think he just got a little stage fright,” Sophia said. “Please, I don’t think it’s a big deal and you know how you like…how you liked to be left alone when you got scared, so please…”

“Oh, fuck off,” Harry snapped, and he hated the way his words made her face crumple but if Louis was scared or if Louis was hurting nothing was going to stop Harry from making sure he was all right. 

“Haz, stop!” Sophia called after him, but he ignored her and he walked away. He shook with the after effects of onstage adrenaline as he walked towards the bathroom and he tried to shake it off the best he could. If Louis was upset he was going to have to be the one to tie Louis to the earth. He could do it; he could. All he had to do was look calm and Louis would be all right. He could fake it if he couldn’t convince himself to feel it, and he grabbed for the doorknob of the bathroom door to find it locked. 

“Lou?” he called through the door. He rattled the cold doorknob in his hand and from within the bathroom he heard the unmistakable sound of Louis retching over the toilet. “Fuck,” Harry said, dropping his head and letting his forehead hit the door. “Fuck, Lou, are you okay in there?”

“Fine!” Louis choked, and he sounded anything but. 

“You don’t sound fine,” Harry said. (He was the expert, after all, faking _fine_ more often than feeling it.) “Can I come in?” 

“No,” Louis said. Again he heaved and Harry grimaced and jiggled the doorknob again, desperate to get inside and help him. 

“Why not?” (He was not heartbroken at the sound of Louis rejecting him; he was the heartbreaker and nothing in the world could break his heart.) 

“I’m, uh…” Louis retched and choked and Harry closed his eyes against the painful sound. “I’m a little busy being sick in here.” 

“I always let you help me,” Harry told him through the door. “Why can’t I help you?”

“Don’t need it,” Louis choked. He flushed the toilet and Harry heard him clamber to his feet. 

“Lou, what happened?” Harry asked. His heart pounded in his chest and it hurt, the way it smashed into his ribcage, and how many broken hearts could a man suffer in his life, anyway? 

And Louis paused, turning the faucet on, and when he turned it off he said, “Haz, just go away. Please.”

“What?” He heard the weak disbelief in his voice, he fucking heard it, but it didn’t matter. 

“If you want to help me…” Louis paused again to cough, dry heaving over the sink, and when he managed to stop he said, “Get someone else. Soph. Niall. Anyone. Just…not you. Please.” 

“Not…not me?” Harry felt like collapsing, dropping to his knees, but he didn’t. He didn’t. Instead he knocked roughly on the door and prayed Louis would open it. 

“Stop, Haz,” Louis said. “I mean it. Back off; I’ll…I’ll see you in the bus in a minute. Okay?” But it wasn’t okay; Louis was in pain and Harry had no idea why and Louis was not letting him help to fix it. 

“Lou,” Harry said. He tried not to make his voice a plea but there it was, loud and clear. “Lou, you gotta let me in. Please.” And he waited and Louis did not reply for a long moment Harry spent with his closed fist hovering by the doorknob. He was not capable of breaking down the damn door but for Louis he just might have been. The door clicked open before he had the chance to try. Harry pushed the door open and stepped into the dimly lit bathroom to find Louis with his back to him, his head bowed before the cracked and splintered mirror. Harry closed the door behind him and bolted it; it was him and Louis against the world and no one else had to be a part of it. 

“Lou,” Harry said. His voice shook and he fucking hated it but Louis would not mind; Louis was good to him and Louis never once told him he stammered too damn much. “Lou, what’s wrong? Why did you tell Sophia to tell me not to follow you?”

“I just,” Louis said, not looking up to meet Harry’s eyes as he watched him behind his back through the mirror, “wanted to be alone. Didn’t want you to worry. Worked out well.” And he looked up and he looked haggard and pale, all traces of color gone from his cheeks as he met Harry’s searching eyes. 

“Why did you want to be alone?”

“I panicked,” Louis said. His eyes shone bright, the color of the damn summer sky, and Harry thought he could snap in two from the pain Louis’s eyes caused him. He looked sad, sad, sad, like the world pinned him down by his sagging shoulders, and Harry had no idea how to pull him back up. 

“Panicked?” Harry stupidly echoed. “About what?” 

“The stage,” Louis said, voice bitter as he scowled and tossed his hand behind him to indicate the crowd that still milled inside the building as they left through the front door. “Them.” 

He was not making sense, his pretty face marred by the frown he wore, and Harry wanted desperately to fix this but what the hell was _this_ , anyway? Harry had seen broken and Harry had seen scared but above all else Louis looked sad, sad, sad and nothing more. 

“What about them?” 

“The shouting,” he said. “Hearing my name. I didn’t know…” He turned green for a moment, putting his fist up to his mouth, but he swallowed hard and he shook his head. “I didn’t know it was so hard. And then you…you put me on display like a fucking animal at the zoo and I know I smiled at you but I didn’t have a choice, did I? Haz, not since the first moment I laid eyes on you have you ever given me a choice.”

“What are you talking about?” (No, no, no, no, no, here it was; here was goodbye.) 

Never had Harry seen Louis like this, angry and sad and scared out of his mind. “I can’t do this,” Louis said. “I thought I could but I can’t.”

“You can’t play with us anymore?” Harry asked. “Lou, they loved you.”

He barked a laugh and it was nothing like the laugh he usually tossed to the ceiling as he threw his head back. He was deathly serious as he spoke. “They loved me because you told them to. They loved me because they love you. You have no fucking idea the power you hold over them, over anyone, and it’s the scariest fucking thing in the world.”

“Lou, what the fuck are you talking about?” Harry took a step closer to Louis and Louis turned from the mirror to look Harry in the eye, smelling like vomit and sweat and looking like death. 

“I’m not your fucking plaything, Harry,” Louis said to him for the second time. (It hurt far worse than the first; Louis had been drunk then and Louis had not remembered at all the conversation that followed.) “I’m not. And you kissed me in front of all those people and I had to stand there and smile and pretend I was okay with being put on display like that…” He bowed his head but Harry wasn’t having it; he took hold of Louis’s chin to make him look up at him and he jerked his head away. 

“This life is not for me,” Louis said with such abruptness that Harry took a hard step back. “It’s not. I thought I could do it because I fucking love you, I’m so fucking in love with you, and I want that to be enough. But you have so much power over me and it scares the shit out of me…Harry , I would fucking die for you. If you asked me to. Doesn’t that scare you?”

(He was going to run and Harry was going to deserve it when he lost him for the second time.)

“Everything scares me.” Louis clenched his jaw and he pushed off the sink and there it was. He tried to run. But Harry could not let him go, he wouldn’t. Louis’s golden ring flashed on his finger and Harry was never going to let him go without fighting for all he was worth. 

“Don’t run from me,” Harry said. “Please.”

“I’m not,” Louis said. “Let me go.”

“Where?”

“Anywhere but here.” Harry stood before the door and Louis was so small, unable to move Harry no matter how hard he tried. Harry could have picked him up and held him against the wall by his throat if he wanted to, but he was terrified as the thought crossed his mind and he tried his best to make Louis stay. 

“Lou, hey. Where are you going?”

“To get drunk out of my fucking mind,” Louis said, furious as he tried again and again to grab for the bathroom door. 

 

“That’s not the answer. Don’t run.”

“Like you have any right to say that to me!” Louis shouted. “You have no goddamn right! Harry, who the fuck do you think you are?”

“I’m your boyfriend,” Harry said, the word _fiancé_ far too dangerous in this enclosed space. “And I love you. Are you really upset with me for kissing you onstage? Is that what all of this is about?”

“Stop,” Louis pleaded. There was more; he wanted to run, but Harry could not let him. He couldn’t. He wouldn’t. “Harry, I’m going to come back to you. I promise. But right now you need to let me go before I lose my fucking mind.”

(Harry was a lot of things and maybe _overbearing_ topped the list.)

“Lou, I can’t…” Louis dropped his head to Harry’s chest and the fight left his body all at once. His forehead was sweaty but so was Harry’s chest and for a long moment Louis stood leaning on him and did not move. And he spoke and his voice was muffled by Harry’s shirt and he said, 

“You’re too intense, baby. You’re too much. You’re all or nothing and I can’t give as much as you need me to give.”

“I don’t need anything from you,” Harry tried, but Louis was good and Louis knew the truth. A bitter laugh escaped him as he leaned heavy on Harry’s chest. 

“You need the world from me,” Louis breathed. “And I know you want me to be this…this big love of your life, end all be all…thing. And I don’t know how long I can do this for anymore.”

“Are you…” Harry gulped, trying his best not to bury his hands in Louis’s disheveled hair. “Are you trying to break up with me?” 

And for a long, agonizing moment Louis did not speak. But he drew in a breath and he was painfully warm on Harry’s chest and he said, “I don’t know. No, I’m not. I’m a fucking goner for you, Harry Styles.” 

(And Harry was cruel and he all but collapsed with relief as Louis began to quake with the effort of keeping tears at bay.) 

“I’m sorry,” Harry said. “I’m so sorry.” And he was, he was, but not sorry enough to let go of the only person he loved enough to hurt him. 

“I gotta go,” Louis said. “I gotta go get drunk and forget my name and forget your fucking face just for a minute.” And he loved him and he loved him and if he really did he would fucking let him go but there was nothing in the world he wanted more than to keep him. 

“Lou,” Harry said, but it was over and he knew it and all he did by blocking the door was delay the inevitable. 

“Let me go,” Louis said, and he lifted his head from Harry’s chest and he looked up at him like he saw something in Harry he didn’t see himself. 

“Let me go with you,” Harry said. But Louis shook his head and when he reached once more for the doorknob Harry stepped out of the way. He was going to give Louis a choice and he was going to be brave because Louis was all Harry had and Harry had no choice but to trust him. 

“I’ll see you later, Haz,” Louis said, and he opened the door and left Harry alone. He stood in the bathroom, perfectly still, for so long he began to lose feeling in his legs. And still he stayed where he was. He couldn’t go out to the bus and face The Troves and face the fact that Louis was going, going, gone. There was nothing he could do. He turned to face the mirror and he turned to face his reflection and he looked almost as bad as Louis, sick and pale and far too thin. He wanted to punch another spider web into the glass and across the stupid face he could never escape. 

But he didn’t. He turned away and he turned towards the door because he had nothing else to do. He walked out of the concert hall he still had one more night in, his hands in his pockets, and it was icy outside with fog rolling across the pavement but still there were fans waiting outside the bus for him. (Louis must have gone right through them without pause.) They screamed his name and he wanted to run away and he wanted to hide but they stood between him and the bus and there was nothing he could do. 

“What are you guys doing out in the cold?” Harry asked as he neared the fans who gathered close when he stepped in. 

“Waiting for you,” they said as if it was perfectly normal to love him, to need him, to wait outside in ten degree weather for a man they knew nothing about. 

“I’m not worth pneumonia,” he said as he signed the first of the scrapes of paper shoved in his face. 

“Sure you are,” the girl before him said, and Harry lowered the paper he held to his nose in the dark to peer at her. (Louis was right; the power he held was terrifying, and there was nothing in the world he could do to make it stop.)

“Don’t say that,” Harry scolded as he handed back the piece of paper with his name scrawled across it. He spent a long ten minutes outside before making some bullshit excuse to head up into the bus and he waved to the milling fans and told them to have a good night. 

It was miraculous the way he portrayed himself, unafraid and strong and like his heart was in one piece. The moment he stepped onto the bus he was hit with a luxurious wave of warm air that eased the stiffness he had developed in his neck from signing autographs in the cold. Niall and Liam and Nick and Eleanor played cards in the living area, Eleanor wrapped in a fleece blanket in Niall’s lap, and Sophia sat in the kitchenette nursing a steaming mug of what smelled like lavender tea. 

“There you are,” Sophia said as Harry closed the door behind him. 

“Where’s Lou?” Niall asked, and of course they were going to ask and of course they were going to wonder and Harry bent down to unlace his Chucks and he said,

“He went out.” Sophia was frowning when Harry straightened up to kick his sneakers into the corner by the door and Harry pleaded silently with her to not ask any questions but she was Sophia and she only wanted to help. 

“I told you to leave him alone,” she said. “Is he all right? Is he coming back?”

“Sophia,” Harry said. But she only took a sip of her tea and shrugged and said,

“Sorry. I’m sorry. I just want to be sure he’s coming back.”

“He said he was.” 

“Well all right, then.” Sophia downed her tea and Harry walked over to the couch to collapse at Niall’s side and for the first time since his departure Harry yearned to call Zayn just to hear his voice to assure him everything was going to be all right. They had yet to hear from him since he arrived back home and Harry was worried but he knew, with Zayn at least, how to leave well enough alone. Harry watched Niall win a round of War and throw his arms in the air in triumph and he bit down the surge of jealousy that rose up his throat at the carefree way Niall laughed. 

(Why, why, why was it always one step forward and two steps back?)

“Want me to deal you in?” Niall asked as he gathered up the cards and began to shuffle them. 

“Sure,” Harry replied. Anything to distract him until Louis returned; sleep would not come easy without Louis sleeping beside him. “How do you play?” And Niall laughed hard enough to shake the couch and Liam leaned across Niall’s body to slap Harry on the back, laughing along with Niall. 

“It’s okay,” he said. “We’ll teach you.” It was a simple game Harry only needed a moment’s reminder to recall and it was just enough to keep him focused on anything but the way Louis’s voice had hitched as he said his (temporary) goodbye. Harry wanted desperately to ask Niall and Liam if Louis was right, if he had far too much power for someone who was only going to break, but he didn’t. They would only tell him the truth and Harry was nothing if not cowardly and full to the brim with self-loathing; what would he have to gain from adding more to the growing weight already on his shoulders? 

Niall won the next round of cards and Harry hardly noticed, craning his neck every other second to see if Louis was waiting at the closed door of the bus. But he wasn’t, he wasn’t, and Niall noticed him staring and said,

“Haz, he’ll be back. What do you think, he’s run off to some Italian hostel? Come on.” He dealt out another round of cards and passed Harry his without waiting for Harry to agree to play. “Calm down, okay?”

It was easy for him to say. He had not seen the way Louis looked at Harry in the fucking bathroom, like he was going to go and going to run and never look back. 

“Do you want some tea, Haz?” Sophia called from the kitchenette. “I can put some honey in it for you.” Harry shook his head without looking back at her and she added, “Or Sudafed,” under her breath and Niall’s jaw dropped. 

“Soph!” he cried, aghast as he looked sharply up at Sophia over Harry’s head. 

“What?” she asked. 

“Lay off him, will you? Jesus.” 

“I just want him to relax; he’s driving me crazy staring out the window.”

“Sophia!” Liam added in. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“Are you taking crazy pills?” Niall asked her. Nick and Eleanor shifted uncomfortably but they did not make a move to leave as Sophia breathed a long sigh and Harry heard her sit down hard at the table in the kitchenette.

“No,” she said, “I’m sorry. Sorry. Sorry.” 

“It’s okay,” Harry said because he was low on choices. But Niall looked horrified as he met Harry’s eyes and he frowned, unwilling to let it go. “It’s okay,” he repeated for Niall’s sake. “Really.” And Niall scowled and he glanced at Liam, who offered him the tiniest noncommittal shrug. 

“Whatever,” Niall said. The tension in the bus was unbearable, Sophia sighing to herself over a fresh mug of tea and Niall stealing angry glances at her over the cards as he dealt them out. “Dunno what’s up her ass,” Niall whispered with a wink to Harry. “Sorry, man.”

“It’s okay,” Harry assured him once again. He could handle Sophia; he was an expert at it. What he couldn’t handle was the anger brewing like a tornado in the tour bus, making the space feel even smaller than it was the longer he tried to keep breathing without gasping out loud. 

One by one the roadies and The Troves gave in to tiredness and headed off to their bunks. Sophia did not say a word as she poured her tea down the sink and retired to her bed. Liam left for bed after her and Niall and Harry were left alone side by side on the couch. Harry checked the clock on the coffeemaker and his heart dropped; it was nearly two in the morning and still he was waiting on Louis. 

“He’ll be back,” Niall said once again. He sighed, tipping his chin up to the ceiling, and his blond hair was a lot longer than it was the last time Harry really paused to look at him. As Harry watched him laze on the couch he yawned and his jaw cracked and he blearily said, “I’m taking some shots. I feel like I’ll never sleep without something in my system.” He stood up, his bones creaking, and he said, “Are you in?” 

Harry thought about it as Niall pulled the Smirnoff from one of the cabinets above the sink and pulled down two shot glasses with it. 

“I’m definitely in,” he finally said. 

“Atta boy,” Niall replied. He sloshed the vodka into both glasses and he carried the glasses and the bottle precariously in his arms as he struggled to make it back to Harry on the couch without spilling. Harry gratefully took one shot glass from Niall and he fell back onto the couch, gulping down his own shot to keep from pouring it down his front, and Harry passed him the bottle so he could pour himself another. As Niall raised his second shot to his lips he smiled over the rim of the tiny glass and said, “Bombs away.” Harry downed his shot and the vodka burned all the way down, scented like strawberry but tasting nowhere near as good as it smelled. 

“You’re out of practice!” Niall said as he caught Harry’s grimace. He poured Harry another and together they downed another shot and slammed the glasses down onto their thighs. Niall poured another and another and Harry did not mean to get drunk but he lost count at shot number five and he barely noticed the fog around the edges of his vision until Niall called it quits and had trouble standing up.

“Have a good night, bud,” Niall said, and he left Harry alone with the bottle but that was all right. He was fine. Shot number six was a Godsend and shot number seven was heaven. He knew he should stop; he always fucking knew. But Louis was not here and Louis was long gone, wherever he was, and if Harry was too intense he sure as hell could be a lot worse. He could be cruel and he could be a goddamn monster if he wanted to be. 

(Maybe if he showed Louis just how monstrous he could be he would finally wise up and leave Harry for good like he should.)

The thought hurt; it fucking ached, and when Harry downed shot number eight the shot glass slipped from his hand with a clank and rolled away from him across the floor. It was just as well. He fumbled for the cork of the bottle and jammed it into place and dropped the bottle onto the floor, unsure he would have been able to stand up and put it away without dropping it on his own head even if he tried. 

It was just as well. 

The clock on the coffeemaker read three forty-seven before the door to the bus burst open and Louis fell onto his hands and knees inside. Harry watched him from where he sat, far too far away now to do anything but wait for Louis to come to him. Louis dry heaved on the floor and Harry wondered for a moment if he should call for Sophia to bring him a bowl to barf in but Louis dragged himself to his feet and wiped at his red, red lips with the back of his hand. He had not seen Harry yet. He took two fumbling steps towards the living area and dropped to his knees again, his hands slipping across the dirty floor of the bus. It was pathetic to watch and Harry felt guilty for being unable to look away. But it didn’t stop him from blearily watching the gentle curves of Louis’s body as he struggled once more to find his feet.

(Harry’s boy was so goddamn beautiful; too beautiful to be so drunk he couldn’t stand.)

And Louis made his way down the aisle of the bus and he looked up and he saw Harry and his blue, blue eyes went wide, wide, wide. 

“Hazza,” he said, and he fucking called him _Hazza_ and Harry’s tired heart soared. 

“Hey, Lou,” he replied as best he could. How awful the two of them must have looked together, slurring towards one another as they squared off in the too small tour bus. 

(It was an ugly picture, Harry and Lou, but nothing Harry would ever want to change.)

“What are you doing up?” Louis slurred.

“What do you think, you fucking idiot? I’m waiting up for you.”

“Didn’t have to do that,” Louis said with a sad shake of his head. “I told you I was coming back.”

“I guess I didn’t believe you,” Harry said. And Louis looked at him and his eyes were watery and rimmed with red (whether he had been crying or drinking too much to see straight, Harry didn’t really want to know) as he watched Harry with his gorgeous fucking lips parted just enough for Harry to see his tongue. 

“Can I sit next to you?” Louis asked as if nothing had changed, as if he had not tried for the second time to say goodbye. 

“Yes,” Harry replied. Louis nodded and he made his way towards Harry and his eyes landed heavy on the bottle of vodka at Harry’s feet and he scowled.

“You’re drunk,” he said.

“You’re drunker,” Harry replied.

“Doesn’t matter,” Louis replied. He picked up the bottle and he sat down hard beside Harry on the couch, cradling the bottle in both arms. He was beautiful even as Harry caught a better look at him and saw the sickly sheen of sweat on his pale face. And Louis popped the vodka open and Harry wanted to tell him to stop but he didn’t. He didn’t. Louis tipped the bottle to his lips and the vodka sloshed in the bottle and he nearly spilled it all down his front as he drank. He took one swallow and then another before the image of watching him choke to death on his own vomit in the night brought Harry back to life. He snatched it from him and it spilled on the floor between them and Louis wiped at his mouth but did not try to grab for it back. 

“I’m sorry I left,” Louis said. He was close enough to (kiss) touch and Harry splayed one hand out, desperate to land it anywhere he could reach on Louis’s skin. 

“You came back,” Harry reminded him. This conversation was not one they should have been having, both of them drunk beyond reason, but Louis was a hurricane and he was going to knock down power lines and flip cars end over end until he had said what he wanted to say. Harry winced when Louis opened his mouth and he wanted to kiss him over and over until he couldn’t speak. But he didn’t. 

“I have no choice,” Louis shrugged. He fucking shrugged and Harry thought of shaking him but he weaved so much where he sat Harry thought the motion could break his neck. 

“You have a choice,” Harry reminded him only because he would not remember this in the light of day. 

“Never when it comes to you. I want you with me forever and ever and isn’t that just the sorriest thing you’ve ever heard?”

(If Harry was a better man he would have stood and packed Louis’s bags for him and shoved him as fast as he could out the door.)

But he wasn’t and he didn’t and he couldn’t and Louis looked at him with his blue eyes like he wanted answers, like he wanted Harry to tell him what to do. He was perfect, he was so, so small, and he twisted his hands over each other in his lap and he shook his head and almost too quiet for Harry to hear he said, “I want off. Hazza, I want off.”

“You don’t mean that,” Harry said. 

“I do. I can’t do this anymore; it’s too hard. You didn’t tell me it’d be so _hard_.” He shook his head again and he was fucking close enough to kiss but he trembled and he spoke and Harry sat perfectly still for staring. “I wanted this to be easy. I wanted to love you and love you every day for the rest of my fucking life but you pull and you pull and you give and you give but you always take more.”

“That’s how it’s meant to _be_ , Lou,” Harry told him. “You’re the rope and I’m the goddamn anchor and I’m always going to pull and pull but you’re fucking stronger than me and you’re always going to hold me down.” He reached for Louis and Louis tried to slip out of his reach but he slipped off the couch instead, landing on his ass on the floor with his hands splayed out behind him. He looked wearily up at Harry, craning his neck to get a good look, and he closed one eye like it was too hard to look at the lights on the ceiling.

“Not anymore,” Louis said, and his other eye slipped closed. “I can’t, not anymore.” And he was pathetically drunk but so was Harry and more than anything Harry wanted to help him up and help him into bed and fall asleep at his side. But it was over, it was over, and maybe that was how all of this was meant to go. 

“Lou,” Harry said. “What are you talking about? You’re the fucking rope and I won’t live without you.” He tried to take Louis’s arm and shove back the sleeve of his shirt to show Louis the tattoo on his skin but Louis jerked away. He was beautiful, he was beautiful, and his eyes were wide as he looked up at Harry. 

“Are you threatening me?” Louis asked. “Is this you telling me I don’t have a choice, Haz? Because whether you like it or not I’m my…my own damn person, and I don’t have to follow you anymore.” His words hung in the air as he let his head tip back and Harry had a great view of the stubble on his chin as he sighed to the ceiling. This was wrong, this was all fucking wrong, and Harry was going to run if Louis did not look back at him soon. 

“Lou,” Harry said because it was all he could fucking say. His voice was pathetically weak and he sounded awful to his own ears but he had to plead; he had to try. 

“What?” Louis asked. He sat on the floor and he sized Harry up and there was nothing in the world that he could do to fix this if it wasn’t what Louis wanted. 

( _Let him go, let him go._ )

But Harry was weak and he was selfish and he opened his mouth to tell Louis to leave him at the same time Louis parted his lips and said,

“I love you.” Harry closed his mouth. He froze. He should speak, he should tell Louis to run, but Louis’s lips were so damn red and Harry could not have found his own tongue if he wanted to. “I love you,” Louis said again, anguished with his head tipped back to the florescent lighting on the ceiling. “I never wanted any of this, my baby Hazza bee.”

(It hurt, it hurt, it hurt, and Harry wanted to beg Louis not to call him that but he loved it, he loved it, and there was nothing he could do.)

“Any of what?”

“This shit. This pain. I didn’t know loving you would hurt so badly.” 

“I could have warned you,” Harry spat without meaning to. And Louis looked at him and Louis offered him both hands and Harry stood. He reached back for Louis and pulled him to his feet, the gold ring on his finger cold in Harry’s hand. Louis wavered where he stood but he looked up at Harry with his lips parted and there a million things Harry should have said in the long moment in which Louis did not speak…but he didn’t say any of them. Instead he let Louis sigh and lower his shoulders and lower his eyes and let his guard down for the first time since he ran away from Harry off the stage. 

“You should have told me you weren’t ready to love me.” Louis was small, so goddamn small, and he smelled like vodka and sugar and sweat and Harry wanted desperately to envelop Louis in his arms and keep him there until the sun rose. 

“I wasn’t,” Harry said as if the words did not strangle him. “I wasn’t. But Lou, I sure as hell am ready now.” 

Louis scoffed. He closed his eyes and his knees quaked enough to make his teeth rattle in his head. But he had nothing to say in reply. 

“Stay with me,” Harry said.

“How long?” Louis asked. 

Harry wanted to demand forever from Louis but he couldn’t. He couldn’t. “As long as you will have me.”

Again Louis scoffed with a click of his tongue and he was all soft angles and dark circles as he rolled his eyes to meet Harry’s once again. 

“Let me go,” Louis insisted, and something deep inside Harry cried out in pain. 

“Stay with me,” Harry replied. (He was dying, he was dying; lying on a hotel floor in London with heroin and coke in his veins was nothing compared to this.) 

“Let. Me. Go.” Louis was resolute and he was strong and he was close enough to kiss but he clenched his jaw and took one step back for every one Harry tried to take towards him. 

“I can’t,” Harry moaned. He was cruel and he was vile but at least he fucking knew it. It was miraculous it took Louis so long to realize the same. 

“I don’t _want_ this anymore,” Louis said. He whined from deep in his throat and the pained moan that escaped him was close enough to the same moan he bit back in the hallway backstage to cause a pang of agony in Harry’s chest. “I don’t want _you_ anymore.” And he took hold of the ring on his finger and he tried to twist it off but he was too fucking drunk to work his fingers and he splayed his hand out before him instead, watching the way the shitty flickering lights bounced off the shining gold. 

“You do,” Harry reminded him, because he could be fucking nasty when he wanted to be. 

“I don’t,” Louis said, but he watched his ring and he let his lip slip between his teeth and he was so fucking small it was hard to believe the world had yet to swallow him whole. 

“You do.” 

“No.” Louis shook his head so hard he lost his balance and Harry tried to catch him as he tumbled onto the leather sofa but Louis did not need his help. He hit the couch and his head hit the window behind it and he was so drunk he did not react as Harry winced at the painful thunk his skull made against the glass. 

“Baby,” Harry said because there was nothing else he could say. “Can I sit next to you?” And Louis waved his arm to the empty space beside him and Harry sat down at his side (right where he fucking belonged) and reached out for his thigh. 

“Don’t touch me. Don’t baby me,” Louis said. The fight drained from him bit by bit and he sat with his hands in his lap, twisting his ring around and around his finger and looking at anything but at Harry. “I’m fucking drunk,” he said. “I didn’t mean to get drunk. I didn’t mean to give you so much power over me. I didn’t mean to fall in love but…but it fucking happened and I let it happen and now I’m so…I’m so lost in you I don’t know where you end and I begin.” He spoke mournfully and Harry deserved every ounce of the pain Louis’s voice brought him. 

“I’m so in love with you and I don’t know how to stop it and I don’t know if I mean one fucking word of this; I won’t remember it in the morning but at least I fucking know that. So let me get all of this out now before I wake up with you holding me and I remember how good you make me feel.” 

“Lou.” He had to stop, he had to fucking stop, because Harry was going to remember every word and it would be wrong, wrong, wrong of him to let Louis speak and let him forget it in the morning. (Maybe Harry should find himself something that would make it easy to forget.) Oxy would work wonders for his wild brain and heroin would work much the same. Xanax might just be enough but he would have to top it off with Everclear or something just as disgusting to make it work just right. 

(What was wrong with him?)

“I’m going to…I’m going to stay with you until the end of the tour,” Louis said. “Isn’t that what they all say? Two more months of hits and two more months of _one more time_ and then I’m fucking done.” And Harry should have told him the same goddamn thing he told Zayn ( _if you’re going to be done, leave now_ ) but he was far weaker than Louis, his tether, and he was never going to learn to do the right thing. He pulled and he pulled because he was Harry fucking Styles and the world bowed down to him and no one ever taught him what to do with the power fame handed him. 

He was immature and old, old, old and he was going to lose his grip on reality if Louis did not stop the quivering of his lip as he sat before him. 

“Stay with me,” Harry all but growled.

“I will,” Louis nodded. He twisted his ring and tried once again to take it off but Harry put one hand on both of Louis’s and the simple touch was all it took to turn Louis into stone as he sat perfectly still beneath Harry’s hand. Alcohol gave heat to Louis’s skin and he was close enough to kiss but Harry had the overwhelming feeling that kissing him would be the last thing Harry would ever do. 

And Harry leaned towards (his fiancé) Louis and Louis closed his eyes and Harry pressed his forehead to Louis’s and sat just like that for so long that he too began to wonder where he ended and Louis began. What the hell did it matter, anyway? Louis was going, going, gone and Harry was stupid to hold him down but wasn’t that what he did to everyone? 

(He had to call Zayn in the morning and apologize for every time he reeled him back in when Zayn wanted to leave.)

“I love you,” Louis whispered. “I love you so much I can’t fucking stand it and I don’t think you could possibly love me as much as I love you but…” He began to stammer and if he was going to cry Harry was going to fall apart and he was fucking going to deserve every bit of pain that came his way. “B-but then I look at you and you l-look at me l-like I’m so much more than I really am and I think…wow, Louis, you better not ever l-lose this boy.” He opened his eyes and he was fucking close enough to kiss as his sweaty forehead pressed on Harry’s. “And I know I was never meant to k-keep you. Did you know that, f-from the very beginning? It’s wild, isn’t it, that w-we ended up together in the first place?”

He was falling apart, he was not making sense, and Harry raised his hands to press them to Louis’s hot, pink cheeks and rub his thumbs in circles at the bags under Louis’s eyes. 

“Don’t touch me,” Louis demanded, but exhaustion overtook him as he spoke and he scowled as his eyes began to close. 

“Watch the sunrise with me,” Harry demanded in reply. It was not time, not yet, but Louis deserved to see the sun and Louis deserved to remember this moment no matter what it meant for Harry and the state of his battered and bruised old heart. 

“The sun?” Louis asked, blearily looking over Harry’s shoulder at the blacked out window of the bus. “It’s not up yet.”

“I know,” Harry said. “We have some time. Will you sit here and wait for me?” he asked.

“Forever,” Louis replied. Harry released his face and he pulled away and Louis sat perfectly still as Harry backed away. 

“I’ll be right back,” Harry told him. 

“I’ll be here.” Harry opened up his bedroom at the back of the bus and he yanked his comforter off the bed and wrapped it tight around his shoulders. It was fucking freezing outside and Harry braced himself on the impossibly long stumble back to Louis on the sofa. Louis was exactly where Harry left him and he looked on the verge of falling asleep as he made eye contact with Harry from where he stood at the end of the hall. Harry tripped over his own sneakers in the hall and he nearly went spilling into Louis’s lap, drunker than he had any goddamn right to be. 

“Oops,” Harry said as he righted himself and stood tall over Louis. 

“Hi,” Louis craned his neck to reply. And with his left hand Harry reached for Louis and Louis looked up at the emerald ring on Harry’s finger and he looked like there were a thousand things he wanted to say. But just like Harry he never said any of them. “I don’t think I can stand,” Louis said. 

“That’s okay. I can carry you.” Harry tripped over the bottle of vodka on the floor and sent it skittering wildly across the floor (how every person on the bus stayed sound asleep through all of this chaos was beyond Harry) and Louis watched it roll away towards the driver’s seat until it disappeared with three sharp bounces down the steps and slammed into the door. 

“Can you?” Louis asked. 

“I can.” Harry crouched on the floor and he thought he more likely than not wouldn’t be able to get up but it was worth a try. He offered his back to Louis and after a beat he felt Louis’s hands land light on his blanketed shoulders. 

“You can’t carry me,” Louis said. 

( _You’re so fucking small._ )

“I can.” And Louis wrapped his arms around Harry’s neck and Harry tried his best to stand. He got up on shaky legs but they held, they held, and Louis hopped up and Harry took hold of him under his thighs. “I got you,” Harry said. “I got you.” 

“I know.” Louis dropped his head onto Harry’s shoulder as he carried him towards the door and he was so damn light like he weighed nothing at all and the weight Louis had gained in luxurious weeks in Manhattan was gone. (Louis was wasting away and it was Harry’s fault and why in the world had he not yet begged Louis to run?) Harry tripped again on the bottle of vodka by the front door of the bus and as he opened the door it fell out onto the pavement and shattered, breaking the silence of almost dawn. 

“Shit,” Louis breathed, his breath tickling Harry’s ear, and he stepped out into the frigid night and Louis’s swearing turned to shivering. It was far colder than it had been when Harry stepped out from the concert hall and the only thing between him and catching a cold was the blanket on his shoulders. 

“Hold on tight,” Harry said, and with icy fingers he grabbed for the steel ladder that would take them to the roof of the bus. 

“No,” Louis whined in his ear. “No, you’re going to kill us.” 

“I’m not.” Louis clung to him, digging his heels painfully into his ribs, and Louis’s arms strangled Harry as he began to climb. 

“Fuck, Haz, no!” Louis cried. “No, no!” But he was tired and the alcohol in his system made him weak. All he could do was hold tight to Harry as he clambered up onto the roof. (Louis was painfully light and Harry was not going to dwell on the effect this life had on his boy for any longer.) As Harry reached the top of the roof Louis leapt off his back, hopping gracelessly over his head to land on a heap on the frigid metal of the roof. The steel was so cold it burned the palms of Harry’s hands as he sat by Louis’s side. Louis had already drawn his knees to his chest and dropped his chin to his knees, curling in on himself as he eyed Harry. 

“Blanket me,” Louis said, and Harry sat so close their shoulders knocked together as Harry unraveled the blanket from around his body and opened it up to let Louis in. “I don’t want to sit so close to you,” Louis said even as he sidled up to Harry and leaned his head heavy on Harry’s shoulder. “It hurts.” 

Harry knew the feeling well. 

“I know, baby,” he said.

“Don’t call me that.”

“Okay.” The metal of the roof was like ice on Harry’s ass and Louis shivered at his side as they stared aimlessly in the direction of the future sunrise.

“How long now?” Louis asked. 

“I don’t know,” Harry replied. 

“Cold,” Louis said.

“I know,” Harry said in reply. They sat close enough to kiss, to fuck, to touch, but they didn’t. Louis Tomlinson was going, going, gone. He dozed off on Harry’s shoulder long before the sky began to change from darkest black to steely gray. From gray the sky flickered to a sapphire blue and from blue it shifted to a rainbow of greens and yellows and oranges. At the first sign of red Harry shook Louis with the arm he had wrapped around his tiny boy’s shoulders and it took a long time but eventually Louis stirred.

“Hazza,” Louis cooed. “Stop it.”

“It’s morning, babe,” Harry told his best boy. “Want to watch the sun come up with me?”

“It still does that?” Louis marveled, and somehow Harry knew exactly what he meant. 

“Yeah, it still does that,” Harry told him. 

(He loved him, he loved him, he loved him, and Louis was still drunk as he wrapped both his arms around one of Harry’s and pressed his cheek to the hollow of Harry’s throat.) The sun rose over Milan and cast the world in soft golden light, casting rays across Louis’s pale skin. 

“Sure is nice,” Louis breathed. 

“It is.” Harry shielded his eyes against the brilliant sun and Louis closed his own and as the sun rose higher and higher Harry basked in the meager warmth it spread through his aching limbs. He was so drunk he could barely keep his eyes from closing but he sure as hell tried. He was a nasty piece of work and he knew it and so did Louis but what did it matter anyway? Louis leaned on him and slowly he began to doze off again in Harry’s arms. He was perfection and he was heat and Harry wanted to kiss him but he didn’t. He didn’t. 

(He never did when it mattered.)

“I love you,” Harry told Louis once he was sure he was asleep. “I love you so much.” It was easy to sit on the roof and close his eyes and watch the sun gleam orange behind his eyelids. It was easy to fall into Louis and fall more desperately in love with him every goddamn moment. What was hard was the decision he should have made before any of this spun out of control. 

He was going to let Louis go. He was going to let him sleep curled into Harry’s side and he was going to let the sun warm his icy nose and he was going to warm his bones in the light of day and then he was going to climb back into the bus and give Louis back the life he was meant to have. 

(Was he really going to survive the loss?)

He was going to give Louis up. He was going to let him run. And Harry tightened his hold on Louis and in response Louis stirred. 

“Shh,” Harry said as Louis whimpered his name. (It sounded lovely, perfect to Harry’s ears, no matter how many times Louis said his name.) 

“Hazza…” Louis murmured again. 

“Shh, baby,” Harry insisted as Louis shifted uncomfortably. “Come here, it’s okay.” And Louis rearranged the blanket around his body and he moved across the roof, shifting so his head rested in Harry’s lap and he stretched his limbs out so they creaked and groaned. “There you go,” Harry said, and carefully he buried his fingers into Louis’s soft hair. He carded it back from his forehead and even the sun was second place to Louis fucking Tomlinson. 

It was over, it was over, and Harry stroked Louis’s hair and tried to tell himself it wasn’t.


	20. Chapter 20

With the morning sun drawing the icy cold from Harry’s skin it was easy to fall asleep on the roof of the tour bus with Louis lightly snoring across his lap. By the time Sophia came looking for him and his phone rang in his pocket it was nearly nine in the morning and his head pounded painfully with every buzz of his phone. He was blissfully warm inside the cocoon he had made with his comforter, Louis’s hair sweaty as he slept in Harry’s lap. The last thing Harry wanted to do was move but he recognized Sophia’s ringtone and knew she was about to blow a gasket if he didn’t answer the phone. 

“’Lo?” he slurred into the phone as he managed to fumble it from the pocket of the jeans he had slept in and press it to his ear. 

“Where are you?” Sophia asked faster than he could gather up his wits to reply. 

“What?” he asked. Her voice was piercing and he grimaced, black spots dancing across his vision as she replied. 

“Where are you, Haz?”

“Uh,” Harry said. It hurt to move and it hurt to breathe and it hurt even more to speak, his throat rubbed raw from the vodka he had downed last night. “The roof,” he finally managed to reply. 

“The roof?” Sophia hung up on him and it was just as well; he felt her coming before he heard her by the rocking of the bus as she stomped her way to the door. He was in a world of trouble and he let his head thunk onto the roof as Sophia climbed up the steel ladder and her head popped up over the edge of the roof. 

“What are you doing, Haz?” she asked, utterly perplexed as always by Harry fucking Styles and his dumbass fucking decisions. 

“Lou fell asleep up here,” Harry said, lolling on the roof and gesturing towards Louis’s head cradled in his lap. 

“He came back, then,” Sophia said. Her face was tight as she eyed Louis and then flicked her eyes back to Harry. She was angry, but wasn’t everyone? It was all right. It was okay. Harry was used to the anger and used to the pain in her face and it didn’t fucking matter because no matter how desperately Harry tried to cling to this moment as soon as Louis woke up he was going to leave and it was all going to be over as quickly as it began. 

“He did,” Harry said, and maybe he was still a little bit drunk and he said, “He did, he did. He came back to me, Soph. Why did he come back to me?” And Sophia looked taken aback as she clung to the ladder and watched him bury his fingers in Louis’s hair. 

“Harry, what’s wrong?” she asked as if there was any fucking question, and before Harry knew it he began to cry. “Harry, no!” Sophia surged forward and she dropped one hand onto his forehead, carding his hair back from his face, and it was over, it was over, it was over. “Harry, sweetheart, no,” Sophia said, anguish painting her voice blue. 

“What’s going on?” Niall called from the bus, and Sophia dug her nails into Harry’s scalp and called down,

“Nothing! Can you make me some tea, please? With honey?” 

“Uh…” Niall said. “Sure thing.” The door to the bus closed and Harry was breaking, breaking, broken, and Louis whined in his sleep as Harry pulled too hard at his hair while he fought a tidal wave of nausea and stupid wasted tears. 

“Don’t cry,” Sophia tried, but there was nothing she could do. It was too late and Harry’s head pounded from the hangover looming over him as he cried. Hot tears rolled down his cheeks as he closed his eyes and it fucking hurt to cry, it fucking made every sore part of him ache, and Sophia patted his head with one hand and tried her best to talk him down. 

“Haz, hey, don’t cry, I mean it. It’s okay, I’m so sorry I was snappy with you last night. I was out of line; hey now, don’t cry.” She stumbled over her words and as Harry lay flat on his back on the roof of the stupid too small tour bus and cried so hard he choked on his own spit and fucking snot and Sophia fished a tissue from her pocket and handed it to Harry, stuffing it into his fist. “Harry, hey now,” she said. Niall emerged from the bus again and he said,

“Uh, I got your tea,” and for a moment Sophia’s hand lifted from Harry’s forehead as she hopped down and had a hushed conversation with Niall he hardly heard over the painful sobs wracking his body. He had never cried like this, not ever, and tears rolled into his ears and into his hair and Louis was still in his lap as he breathed in and out, perfectly at peace, and peace was all Harry ever wanted to give him. 

“Haz, sweet pea, take this,” Sophia said, and Harry heard the tinkling of Sophia placing a porcelain cup of tea onto the steel roof by his head. “Drink it, please.” Harry tried to tell her he couldn’t, his world was falling apart, but Louis stirred in his lap and his sneakers skidded across the roof as he struggled to wake up in the morning sun. 

“Fuck,” Harry barked. “Fuck.” He wiped fruitlessly at his eyes, desperate to stem the flow of hot tears, but nothing was stopping it now that he had begun. It was over, it was over, and the harder he tried to stop the harder it got to keep wiping the tears away. And Louis turned his head and Harry wanted to look at him; he wanted to see his eyes. But he couldn’t. He couldn’t. 

“Haz…” Sophia said. She pleaded with him and he had no idea what she wanted anymore. She wanted him to stop crying, he knew that, but there was always something more. 

“Fuck,” Harry whimpered in reply. It hurt to cry and it hurt to breathe and Louis said his name and everything else fell away.

“Good morning, Hazza,” Louis said. And Harry opened his eyes and he turned his head to look at Louis through a thick haze of tears and Louis’s forehead creased as he asked, “Why are you crying?” and Harry laughed, he fucking laughed, and it hurt so badly he almost lost control. He laughed to the sky with no fucking clue why and he could feel Sophia’s eyes all over him and Louis reached up for him and splayed a hand over his chest and his gold ring gleamed in the sunlight and wasn’t it all just one big fucking joke? 

“Baby, hey,” Louis said, but Harry’s laughter broke something inside him (the dam that kept all of this inside) and he barked a sob that seemed to shake the bus beneath him. “Oh, baby.” Louis sat up and Harry laughed again as his face went white. He scrambled on his bruised hands and on his knees to the opposite edge of the bus from where Sophia hung from the ladder and Harry turned his head away as Louis retched and heaved onto the pavement below. 

“What’s going on with you two?” Sophia asked, and if she was going to cry Harry was never going to stop. He looked at her over the mug of tea between them and she looked scared out of her mind and she had every damn right to be. (It was an ugly picture, Harry and Louis, and he understood the panic in her wide eyes as she tried to figure them out for the hundredth time.) And Harry heard the love of his fucking life crawl back across the roof and there he was at Harry’s side, leaning over him where he lay to look down at his face. Tears streamed down Harry’s cheeks and into his hair and Louis cocked his head and asked him what the hell was wrong with him.

( _You’re going, going, gone, baby, and I don’t remember who I am without you._ )

“You,” Harry choked through the fucked up tears and half strangled laughter coming in gasping breaths from his mouth. 

“Me?” Louis asked, and wasn’t this all one big fucking joke? “What about me?”

( _You’re too gorgeous to look at; too perfect, like the goddamn sun._ )

“I love you,” Harry told him. Louis’s hair had grown far too long and it hung in his face as he looked down at Harry and all of it, the whole big mess of him, was far too much to handle. He choked, gasping for air as he struggled to stop crying, and he heard Sophia climb down the ladder and whisper to Niall to _get back into the bus, he’s fucking hysterical up there_ and Harry understood where she was coming from. He was hysterical; it was all so goddamn hysterical, and he was losing his mind as Louis watched him and with the hand not bearing a pretty golden ring he reached for Harry’s face. 

“I love you, too, Hazza,” Louis said, and Harry closed his eyes as Louis’s fingertips landed light on his cheek. “Why are you crying, my Hazza?”

(It was going, going, gone and Louis didn’t fucking remember the goodbye just like the last time but just like the last time Harry remembered all too well.)

Louis wiped at Harry’s tears with his thumb and Harry did not (could not) open his eyes. 

“Look at me, hey,” Louis said. But he couldn’t. If he looked he was going to break and if he broke he was going to tell Louis exactly what he had said when liquor loosened his tongue and let Louis fall where he may. (He was going to run and Harry was going to lose. His. Fucking. Mind. and he was going to deserve every stab of agony the loss gave him.) 

“I can’t,” Harry told him. ( _Don’t make me_.)

“Babe, I love you, don’t cry.”

“Don’t call me that.” It was agony, it was torture, and with both hands now Louis fought against the tears Harry couldn’t stop from falling. 

“Hey, please, I’m sorry. I’m sorry; are you upset with me for leaving last night?”

“No,” Harry said. He told the truth but he fucking lied by omission and that was nearly as fucking bad, wasn’t it? 

“Are you upset I came back?” Louis asked, quiet as he dabbed hopelessly at Harry’s cheeks. 

“No,” Harry said. The sun shone brilliantly down on him and he spread his fingers out across the roof of the bus to take in the feeble heat the sun gave to him. He did not deserve the sun and he watched it rise and rise behind his eyelids and it was a goddamn miracle after all this time it never failed to rise and rise and rise. And Louis made a soft noise, one that made Harry think of ice cream in a high rise in Manhattan and if Louis was going to cry he was going, going, gone. “Don’t cry,” Harry told Louis. “Not for me; not anymore.” 

“Then look at me.” And Louis looked shocked as Harry obeyed, opening his eyes and finding Louis leaning over him with the sun as his halo, the rays playing through his hair. Harry almost began to laugh again, unraveling as an old song about an earth angel filled his stupid aching head, but he didn’t. Instead he reached up, taking hold of Louis by the soft hair at the nape of his neck, and he pulled Louis down to him and down to his face and down to his lips, and he kissed Louis as if it was all that mattered, as if the world would end if their lips did not meet, and Louis whimpered against his mouth and it was the sweetest fucking kiss Harry had ever taken from someone. 

(He took things and he mangled them and this kiss was no exception, his mouth crashing against Louis’s and their teeth painfully colliding. But Louis was so fucking good and he tasted like last night’s booze and he had sweat on his lip but what did it matter, anyway?)

Harry let Louis go and he drew back. He lifted his hand from Harry’s cheek and pressed it to his lips as if he wanted to swallow the kiss down and keep it forever, and he looked dazed as he kept his eyes firmly on Harry. 

“Hazza, what’s wrong?” Louis asked.

“For starters,” Harry choked through the last of his bitter, stupid tears. He wiped at his face (he could do it himself; he didn’t need Louis touching him anymore) and he looked away from Louis, past him, to watch the sun. “For starters,” he tried again, “I was born to be onstage. Isn’t that enough wrongness for one man to hold?”

“Baby, what are you…?”

“Don’t call me that.” 

“Haz, what are you _talking_ about?” Louis was scared and Harry knew the fucking feeling. He reached again for Harry’s face and if he wasn’t still just a little bit too drunk to stand Harry would have sat up and reached for him in return. 

“My life,” Harry said, raising his arms and letting them hit the steel roof with twin thumps at his sides. From inside the bus he heard muffled voices, Liam and Niall mumbling to Sophia about him just like they always did. What did it matter, anyway? “My life is a mess, Lou, and you’re stuck in the middle. And it’s not fair and I know it and I don’t know a lot of things but I know that this life is not for you.” He used Louis’s own damn words right back at him but Louis had no clue; he had the luxury of forgetting and Harry wished desperately he could be so lucky. 

“What are you _talking_ about?” Louis asked. “I belong with you and it doesn’t matter if this life is for me because _you_ are.” 

“Stop.” Harry shook his head but it hurt too much to rattle his brain and he wanted to down the tea Sophia had left at his side and his hand curled into a fist around the tissue she had offered him and wasn’t all his life just one big stupid joke? 

“Stop what? Baby, what’s going on with you? You need to tell me why you’re so upset.” Louis took hold of Harry’s cheeks and he turned his face to make him look and it hurt more than anything because Louis was perfect and he shone in the sun like a fucking angel and wasn’t that just one big fucking joke? 

And Harry said it, he fucking said it, and there was never going to be a chance to take it back. “You said goodbye,” he told Louis. He began to cry all over again like a fucking baby and he hated the way his voice broke on the _goodbye_ like that was it; it was final. “You said you wanted out, Lou, so here it is. Here’s out. Take it. I can’t keep you anymore.” 

The silence that followed his admission stopped his fucking heart and he couldn’t do it, he had ruined everything, and he had to run before it was too late. He sat up and fought a wave of dizziness that swept over him and Louis was right there, close enough to kiss, and he tried his best to struggle to his feet but Louis took hold of his hand with both of his own and told him to stay. 

“I can’t,” Harry said. Didn’t he understand that it was all over? One of them had to go and one of them had to run because it was what they always did. Two steps forward and four steps back and they always ended up farther back from where they fucking started and they were never, ever going to be in the same place at the same time and it was agony in Harry’s chest but he had to run; he had to. His heart was a goddamn cacophony of noise and he was going to die on the tour bus roof in the warm Italian sun if he did not get up and go. 

“Haz,” Louis said. If he was going to cry Harry was never going to stop, his nose running as his eyes streamed and throbbed with every beat of his heart. 

“What?” Harry asked. 

“Stay. Let me talk, will you?” Louis was beauty and Louis was the sun and the sky and blue, blue eyes and he stared at Harry like there was something he saw Harry always missed. “You don’t get to tell me you can’t keep me. You have no right to try and throw me away. Sit, Haz, and stay, and look at me and tell me what you want me to do.”

( _I want you to go._ )

“Lou…” Harry pleaded, but Louis was stronger than him and he was always going to pull but Louis was always going to hold him down and keeping him from going too far. There was no escaping his eyes, as brilliantly blue as the morning sky above them, and it was a cold morning in January but Louis was all heat and fire as he waited for Harry to obey him. 

And he did because he always did and there was nothing in the world he’d rather do and no place in the world he’d rather be. Harry stayed right where he was, crossing his legs on top of the tour bus, and Louis reached out for his hands and Harry let him take them. Louis’s hands were so goddamn small and Harry’s made them look even smaller as Louis drew them into his lap and held them there. He looked up at Harry and Harry looked back at him and Louis was so goddamn good even as he took a deep breath and watched Harry with pity in his face. 

“What?” Harry asked because Louis’s hands were warm and he could not (would not) run. 

“I don’t want out,” Louis said. “Whatever I said to you last night doesn’t matter. Do you hear me, Haz? I was _drunk_ and I know you probably think something stupid like I wouldn’t say something I wasn’t already thinking when I was sober. Right? I know I fucked up by…by leaving after the show, and it won’t happen again. I promise. Haz, do you hear me?” And he squeezed Harry’s hands in his own tight enough to turn their knuckles twin shades of purple-tinged white. He heard him, he heard him, but he had also heard him last night and his stupid nose wouldn’t stop running and he sniffed and it hurt and he had dropped the tissue Sophia had given him and he desperately needed it. “Look at me,” Louis demanded before Harry had even realized he had dropped his gaze. 

Harry looked at him. 

“I said goodbye?” Louis asked. “I told you I was done?”

“You did,” Harry croaked. He needed to clear his throat, he needed to throw up, and he needed to get off this ride before it was too late. 

“I’m sorry,” Louis breathed. He was pale, frighteningly so in the light of day. And there was a tremor in his hands and a waver in his voice and he spoke with awed sincerity like nothing he had ever said before was as important as this. “It’s not true.” 

“You have to go,” Harry told him. Louis squeezed his hands so hard he gasped out loud from the pain, the ring on Harry’s finger pinching his skin like it always did. 

(The rings on their fingers were shackles and Louis deserved to be freed.)

“I’m not going anywhere. I’m part of the band now, remember?”

“You don’t want to be.”

“I do. I want what’s best for you, Hazza, I…”

“Don’t call me that.”

“What do you want me to call you, then? What am I to you if I can’t call you my fucking baby if I want to? Huh? What am I to you?” 

“Stop.” (Stop the world, stop the questions, stop the burning Louis’s eyes caused to Harry the longer he watched him.) 

“I can’t go now,” Louis said. He was going to beg and Harry was going to die and everything fell apart far too fast to catch every piece as they fell and they were long gone, lost, and there was no getting them back. The puzzle was always going to have missing pieces and maybe that was how Harry was supposed to live. 

“You should never have come,” Harry told him. Louis squeezed his hands and it was all Harry could do to keep from crying out in agony at the weight of his fingers. 

“Hazza, Jesus, what do you want from me?” Louis asked, and Harry closed his eyes and the moment he did Louis dug his fingernails into Harry’s hands and it hurt and it hurt and Harry opened his eyes because Louis was not going to go without a fight. 

“I want you to go,” Harry said. “I want you to go back to our…to your hotel room in New York and I want you to live a happy goddamn life there and I want you to be safe and I want you to be far away from me.”

“You don’t _mean_ that,” Louis said, and wasn’t all of this just one big fucking joke? It was too much; Louis was too much and it was never, ever going to change. Louis was a storm and Harry was a volcano and they were never meant to collide. Colliding meant tearing the world down along with them and everything was fucking meant to fall apart. 

“I need you to be happy,” Harry said. “And you’re not with me.”

“I am,” Louis said. “Jesus, fuck, what can I do to prove it to you?” His voice was ragged and Harry tried to close his eyes, desperate for any escape he could get, but Louis let go of his hands and he pressed his palms to Harry’s face and he made him look, he made him look. So close Harry could (taste) see the tears clinging like raindrops to Louis’s eyelashes, Louis was fire and Louis was heat as his eyes roved over Harry’s face in search of anything he could find to make Harry stop. 

(There was no stopping a volcano already starting to erupt, was there?)

“You have to go home,” Harry said.

“Home is you.” 

“No,” Harry said because he had nothing else to say. He was in so much pain he couldn’t find his lungs to breathe, the icy air of January something he hardly felt anymore. He was used to the cold as he was to the pain and he barely felt it when Louis barked a sob that cracked like a whip through the early morning sky. 

“Hazza,” Louis said. “You can’t tell me to leave. You don’t want that. You don’t.” 

“I do.” It was easy to lie, it was easy to break him, because Harry had always seen this coming and there was nothing he could do to change it now. 

“Don’t fucking lie to me! What is this, Harry, some bullshit excuse to throw me away so you can feel better about yourself? Do you think you have enough power over me to call me broken over you? I don’t know what to say, Haz, please, but you can’t tell me to leave you now. I won’t. Christ, Haz, I wouldn’t survive without you.”

Harry knew exactly what he meant. He knew because he felt just the same. Losing Louis was going to kill him and he was going, going, gone. He was already wasting away and Louis was, too, his cheekbones jutting out in his face and his hips too sharp as he faded. Louis was a ghost and Harry was long gone and he could do this, he could do this, he had no goddamn choice. 

“You have to,” Harry said. “You have to, Lou, please. Don’t make this worse.” 

“Then stop trying to say goodbye!” Louis cried. The tears in his eyes shone in the sun but they didn’t fall, clinging to his eyelashes instead and sparkling in the rays of the sun. “Stop trying to…stop trying to break up with me or whatever the hell it is you’re doing.”

And Harry had begged him for the very same thing last night as Louis heaved over the toilet after his first fucking show and Louis had told him he didn’t know, he didn’t know. 

“I’m not breaking _up_ with you,” Harry told him. Breaking up was for kids, for teenagers who had no idea what it felt like to be so desperately in love it hurt in every fucking bone, and breaking up was the end. Breaking up was too banal, too dull to describe the end of something like this. It was ridiculous, absolutely insane, and Louis was beautiful as he begged Harry not to do this, not to end this. 

“Then what are you doing?” Louis asked. 

“I’m trying to save you,” Harry said. “From me, from this, from the fucking world that doesn’t deserve you. Do you get that? This life is not for you. I’m not the one for you. You told me you wanted an out. Well, here it is, baby. This is it. And if you don’t take it I can’t promise there will ever be another chance again.” 

He spoke nonsense just like he always did and if he had the time he could have written Louis a thousand songs that spoke far more articulately than Harry ever could with his fumbling, idiotic tongue. Louis was anguished and it was written all over his fucking face and Harry wanted to take it back, all of it, but just like that it had come spilling from him and Louis was small and Louis’s shoulders quaked with the effort of holding in tears. 

And maybe Harry was threatening him this time. Maybe he was not past threats to get what he wanted and he knew from the start that this was going to be the end. No matter what he held in his hands it always sifted through like sand and over and over he lost the things he loved the most.

(He lost Zayn and he lost Jeff and he fucking died in agony for Louis and still he was going to do it all over again.)

“Do you think you’re being noble doing this?” Louis asked. “Do you think you need to save my fucking life? I might not be as strong as you, Haz, and I might get scared and I might fucking need to throw up a time or two and get drunk and skin my fucking hands and knees but…Jesus, I’m not going to give up and I’m not going to die. I’m not as delicate as you and everyone else thinks I am, Harry Styles, and I will never, ever let you break me.” His chest heaved, his heartbeat visible in the blue, blue vein in his temple, and Harry was going to break if Louis was not. 

And this was it. Harry was done. He tried to stand because he had to fucking leave and there was nothing in the world he could do to end this but stand up and end it himself. 

“Hazza, no,” Louis said, and he tried to stand but his limbs were clumsy and he hit the roof on his hands and knees. Harry stood and it ached, his knees and his legs crying out in pain, and he took two steps towards the ladder before Louis pulled him back.

(He was the rope and he was never going to let Harry get too far.)

“Harry, where are you going?” 

(He had to get into the bus; he had to beg Sophia to send Louis away and smash his heart so brutally he would never want Harry to stand before him again.)

Harry clambered down the ladder and he only made it down the first two slippery rungs before he heard Louis stumble after him. He raised his head and Louis wavered where he stood and he looked sick, sick, sick, and before Harry had time to reach for him he tripped over his own sneakers and he was going, going, gone. He was clumsy from the alcohol he had depended on to get through last night and he slipped, falling backwards off the goddamn roof. He disappeared from view and there was a sickening thump as the love of Harry’s life hit the pavement and it was all Harry could do to keep from slipping off the ladder and slipping into unconsciousness as he waited without breathing to hear something, anything, from Louis on the other side of the bus. There was nothing, there was nothing, and Harry couldn’t control his limbs as his hands loosened and he fell to match Louis, landing hard on his ass on the cement and biting down harder on his tongue. His stupid mouth filled with blood and the taste was so familiar he hardly tasted it at all. Every muscle in his body, every bit of the fucking marrow in his bones cried out in pain as he struggled to find his feet and run to the other side of the bus where the best thing he had ever given up waited for him. 

“Lou,” Harry breathed, and the door of the bus flew open and before Harry had time to draw breath Sophia was on him, all sharp nails and smeared black eyeliner. 

(She had been crying, then, the stress of dealing with the monster that was Harry fucking Styles tearing her apart.)

“What happened?” she asked, wild as Harry fought to get away from her. 

“Lou,” he said again. “Let me go!” And he darted around her and she followed him and there he was, lying on his back on the pavement with his knees bent and his sneakers searching for purchase on the ground. Harry was on his knees before Sophia had time to slap her hands over her mouth and it hurt, it always hurt, but Harry scraped up his hands to race to Louis’s side and Louis’s eyes were closed and this was too much, this could not be real, but Louis breathed in and out and it was all Harry could have asked for. 

“Lou, hey, hey,” Harry breathed. He reached for Louis, for his fucking broken fiancé, and Sophia cried,

“Don’t touch him!” but it was too late and Harry pulled Louis into his arms and Louis opened his eyes the same brilliant shade as the sky and the moment he looked at Harry all the agony burst from his body and fell away.

“Hey,” Harry said. “Hey, are you okay?” He took in Louis’s face, his perfect fucking eyes, and there was nothing wrong, no blood, no tears; he was fine. But Louis grimaced as he tested out his limbs and Harry searched desperately for the reason why. “Where do you hurt?” Harry asked. “Baby, hey, where does it hurt?” 

And Louis Tomlinson was something fucking special and Harry laughed so hard his chest hurt when Louis pointed with one hand to his heart and croaked with a twisted smile, “Here.” 

“Don’t I know it,” Harry replied. Louis Tomlinson was human and he was fragile and it was possible he could shatter right here cradled in Harry’s arms on a cold January morning. 

“Not good,” Louis breathed with a sad shake of his head. The fire in his eyes had gone out and Harry wanted to reignite it, shaking the ice from his bones. 

“No,” Harry agreed. “Not good at all.” 

“I suppose I’m off to the Island of Misfit Toys, then,” Louis breathed, and Harry had no fucking idea what he was talking about but he nodded just the same. 

“I guess so,” Harry agreed. The bus door crashed open once again and The Troves and Nick and Eleanor spilled out and Sophia tried her best to hold them back but one by one they gasped out loud.

“What happened?” Niall asked, and Sophia hushed him but Harry told Niall the truth without looking away from the perfection that was the boy so small in his arms.

“I finally did it,” Harry said. “I broke him.” And Sophia ushered the band away and she dropped a hand into Harry’s hair as he stroked Louis’s hair back with shaking fingers.

(He never had steady hands, not even when it mattered most.) 

For a long moment Sophia stood over Harry and for a long moment Louis watched her hover, his eyes half lidded as he lolled on the pavement. And Louis’s lips quirked up into a pained smile as Sophia’s hand lifted from Harry’s hair and she said, voice soft,

“Did you hit your head, Lou? Is anything broken?” And she sounded like panic was just below the surface, like she was about to scream, and Harry couldn’t have looked at her if he wanted to. 

“Fine,” Louis said with a tired wave of one hand. “I’m fine.” But his eyes were bleary and Sophia saw, of course she saw, and she was quiet as she told Louis she was going to take him to the goddamn hospital whether he liked it or not. Harry was sick of hospitals, of pain and of the smell of cleaning supplies and sickness, but Sophia was resolute and Louis nodded tiredly as she fumbled for her phone and called for a cab. 

“Thanks, Soph,” Harry mumbled as she hung up the phone. 

“Anything for you,” she said like it hurt more than anything she had ever said to him. And finally, slowly, Sophia walked away without another word. Harry listened to her footsteps as she stepped back onto the bus and he listened as the door closed and all at once the world was silent around him. 

And Harry had no idea what to say. There were a million things he could say, a million things he could do, but there was only one real choice. 

“You have to go home, baby,” Harry cooed, and this time Louis nodded. 

“Harry,” Louis said, and for all Harry cared the world could have collapsed all around him. 

“Yeah?”

“I’m going to love you for the rest of my fucking life.” Louis closed his eyes, squirming painfully in Harry’s lap, and Harry knew the feeling. 

“I know,” Harry said. “I know, baby.” He missed Louis’s eyes but he leaned in close to brush his fingertips along Louis’s eyelids, trying his best to memorize the way he looked with his face twisted up in pain as he grimaced on the pavement. He caused the pain, after all, and forgetting it would mean forgetting all the wrong he did by the perfect boy in his arms. 

He said the only damn thing that made sense as the morning bloomed bright in Milan. 

“I’m sorry, baby,” he said. “I’m so, so sorry.”

 

Harry sat with Sophia at his side for three hours in the emergency room. They had left the band and the roadies behind in the tour bus and the two of them sat in silence, the only sound around them that of the clock ticking as it always did on the wall. It drove Harry mad but at least it proved that time would not ever stop just for him. He needed it to; he needed a break. But he was never going to get it. He was Harry fucking Styles and he was born to die. 

As the clock chimed briefly to mark less than three hours to go before sound check Louis emerged from the double doors beyond the waiting room with a weak smile playing on his lips. Harry stood up and it hurt, it hurt, and he met Louis in the middle and he wanted to hug him, wanted to crush him to his chest, but Louis was a broken bird and Harry was going to kill him if he tried. 

“I’m all right,” Louis said. “No, uh, no permanent damage, anyway.” He spoke slowly and Harry’s heart leapt into his throat; he knew the pacing of Louis’s voice well. And Louis confirmed the fear in Harry’s gut as he smiled dimly and said, “Pain meds. So much. Just cause my…my back hurts a bit. I’m sorry if I’m not making much sense.” 

“It’s okay, sweetheart, come here,” Sophia said, and she linked her arm with Louis’s and led him towards the exit with one eye on Harry. “You, too,” she said when Harry did not move. He couldn’t find his fucking legs and Sophia let go of Louis for a moment to double back to Harry. 

“Haz,” she said, looking up at him and waving one hand in front of his face. “Are you home?”

“Sorry,” he said. “I’m coming.” And he followed Sophia and Louis out of the hospital and into the frigid winter air and Louis began to shiver pitifully as the three of them waited for Nick to pick them up in the tour bus. 

(It was two hours to go before sound check and Harry had to get Louis out of here before it was too late.)

“Fucking cold,” Louis said, and Sophia rubbed her hands along the bare skin of his arms and told him she would make him tea in the bus and he smiled lightly, nodding. “Ah, thanks.” He clutched a bottle of pills in one hand and it shook like a rattle as he shivered and it drove Harry mad. 

(What he wouldn’t give for just one of those fucking pills…)

He shook his head and it hurt and his head pounded as he stood, hands in the pockets of the jeans he had been wearing for twenty-four hours straight. And the tour bus appeared around the street corner and Nick pulled to a stop and one by one Louis and Sophia and Harry stepped inside. It was blissfully warm but Harry was far from blissful as Nick pulled back onto the road with a creak and a groan of metal and headed towards the concert hall. 

Harry had to do something and he had to do it now. Sophia disappeared in the back of the bus to put Louis to bed and if Sophia thought there was any chance they would have a guitarist for tonight she was out of her mind. They would have to cancel the show, just this one, at least, and put out a fucking ad in the newspaper if that was what it took. There was no way in hell The Troves were taking the stage tonight. But still they drove on and Niall and Liam played cards silently in the kitchenette and neither one of them looked at Harry as he idled close by but did not sit with them. 

Sophia came back and Harry dashed to her side and he asked her, “What are we going to do?”

“We’re going to go to the venue and we’re going to cancel the show,” she said. She was scared out of her mind and Harry didn’t blame her; one thing after another knocked them down and there was no saving them this time. They had nothing. They were done. 

“And then what?” Harry asked. 

She threw her hands in the air and said, “I don’t know, honey. I don’t know. What do you suggest, Haz?” 

“We could admit defeat,” Harry said, and the last thing he expected was the sharp slap Sophia gave him across one cheek, hard enough to crack his neck. He put one hand to his stinging face the same moment Sophia slapped both hands over her mouth, horrified at her outburst, and told him she was sorry. 

“I didn’t mean to do that,” she said, and Harry could feel Niall and Liam looking at the two of them as they fought in the hall. “But you are not giving up, not now.”

“Is Lou asleep?” Harry asked abruptly, and if Sophia was confused by the change of subject she did not let on. 

“Yes,” she said simply. 

“Good,” Harry said. “I want him gone. Send him home; do whatever it takes to make him go.” And Sophia lowered her hands and her pretty pink mouth was wide open as her jaw dropped and she shook her head so hard he thought her neck might snap. 

“No.”

And there was no explaining this to her, no getting her to see the damage Harry did over and over to the best part of his life, and there was no telling her everything Louis had said to him the night before. 

“It’s not for me, Soph,” Harry said. “It’s for his own good. He’s going to die following me, Sophia, please. You have to help me send him home.” He was not going to cry again, he was not, and Sophia looked him up and down with her eyes open wide.

“Harry,” she said. “He’s not going to go just because I tell him to. If you want him to leave, you have to make him. I’m not breaking up with him for you, Haz, and you need to stop hiding behind me.” With that she shoved by him, flouncing away towards the roadies at the front of the bus, and Harry turned around to watch her go. Niall and Liam pretended they had not been hanging onto every word and more than anything Harry wanted to call Zayn and cry and cry and cry until he was dry because maybe Zayn would understand. But he couldn’t and he didn’t and he stared at the closed door of the bedroom he shared with Louis and he was fooling himself by pretending he wanted anything but to curl up around Louis and hold him…even if it was for the last time. 

And Harry made his way to his bedroom and he held the doorknob in his hand, dropping his forehead to the cool wood, and he strained his ears to hear Louis breathe by himself in the room. Harry wanted him; he wanted every fucking lousy part of him, but it was too late. It was over. He opened the door and all he saw of Louis was his hair sticking out from under the comforter Harry had wrapped them in the night before. He was so small and it never stopped hitting Harry with a pang just how small he was. Harry closed the door behind him and for a long moment all he did was watch Louis breathe in and out, the mound in the blanket that was his body moving up and down with every breath. 

(Maybe he could stay in this moment forever and maybe that would not be so damn bad.)

He took one step and then another and he tumbled on his knees onto the bed by Louis’s side. And just like that morning, Louis did not stir. It was over. It was over. But Harry lay down beside Louis and curled his body around him, squirming his way under the cocoon Louis had wrapped himself in and warming his bones as he tucked himself in at Louis’s back. Louis lay on his side and Harry was careful as he wrapped one arm around Louis’s middle. He couldn’t hurt him anymore; he wouldn’t. It was the very least he could do now to be gentle as he held Louis and waited for the inevitable creak of the bus as they pulled to a stop before the concert hall. 

“I love you,” Harry whispered in the dark of the bus, kissing the hair at the nape of Louis’s neck and breathing in the sweet smell of his hot skin. “I love you so much.” Louis was still and Louis did not reply and far before Harry was ready the bus pulled to a stop and it was all fucking over. He heard Sophia looking for him, calling him to her, but he couldn’t move. Louis was warm and outside was cold and the moment he left the bed all would be lost; it would all come crashing down around him. Where he lay now he could pretend that this was okay, this was forever, this was a hotel room in Manhattan where there was not a care in the world. 

But Sophia called him again like she always did and then she came for him, her heels clacking on the floor three seconds before the bedroom door slipped open.

“Haz,” she said, “you have to get out there. There are a lot of fans out here and I need you to tell them the show is canceled.”

“Why me?” Harry asked, his voice a weak moan. 

“They love you,” she said. “Don’t you owe it to them to be the one to tell them?” 

“I can’t,” Harry replied. 

“You can’t or you won’t?”

“Both.” And Sophia was good and she was far kinder than Harry deserved and she told him it was okay, she would tell them, and he should get some rest and she would take care of everything. She always did. Someday Harry would give her the world but for now all he could give her was thanks as she told him it was all right and closed his bedroom door. He lay in the dark with his body curled around Louis. And he was bad to the bone and he should have seen this coming. 

Denial was a hell of a fucking drug.

Louis slept and Harry wanted to wake him up and kiss him until the sun went down but he heard screaming from outside the bus and he heard Sophia apologize over and over and there it was. She had told them, she had told them, and the list of people Harry disappointed grew exponentially longer as Sophia climbed back up onto the bus and ordered Nick in a terse voice to drive them somewhere, anywhere to park for the night.

“On second thought,” she said. “I need a hot tub. Find us a hotel, Nick, will you?” Her voice was muffled coming from the other end of the bus and Harry heard Niall and Liam cheer quietly at the thought of a hot shower and a massive hotel bed with down pillows. And Harry wondered where that left him and Louis, the reason the show was cancelled, and what was going to happen come tomorrow. 

(It didn’t matter; all that mattered was Louis and each long breath he took in as he slept.)

“I love you so much it hurts,” Harry told Louis, and it was easy. It was easy. Louis mumbled something in his sleep and Harry wanted to nudge him awake and ask him what it was but he didn’t. All he could do was press his face into the crook of Louis’s neck and kiss him there again and again, Louis too sleepy to wake up as he squirmed. 

“I’m sorry,” Harry whispered. “But I’m going to love you forever.” He had no clue what he meant by that but it was true. It was true, and Louis had no clue he spoke to him as he slept peacefully enough to break Harry’s heart. 

“You’re so beautiful,” Harry told his best boy, and he closed his eyes and pretended this was not it, this was not the last time they were ever going to lay together like this. But it was, it was, and faking it was getting harder every passing moment. 

The bus pulled to a stop once again and once again Sophia opened the bedroom door. “Get up,” she said, “We got a hotel for the night. Please come in with us.” 

“Can’t,” Harry said even though he could have moved mountains for Louis if he ever asked him to. 

“You can,” Sophia scolded.

“He’s still asleep,” Harry told her.

“I can see that. Wake him up; you’re not sleeping out here in the bus now that I’ve booked you a bed. Okay?” 

“I’m not waking him up.”

“Fine.” Sophia strode across the room and before Harry could stop her she shook Louis, rousing him from sleep and telling him to get up. He groaned, a soft sound that pulled dangerously hard at Harry’s heart, and he found his voice and told her,

“I’m too broken to stand.”

“Do you want me to carry you?” Harry asked, and Louis paused for a long time before replying.

“Always,” he said. And just like last night Harry carried Louis, his best boy clinging to his back with his head lolling on Harry’s shoulder, and Sophia carried their bags in both arms as Louis’s chin kept hitting Harry in the jaw as he walked. “Sorry, baby Hazza bee,” Louis slurred, his tongue lost in his mouth from lack of sleep and too many pain pills. 

“It’s okay, earth angel,” Harry replied, and the laugh Louis breathed in his ear was the most glorious thing he had ever heard.

“I like that,” Louis cooed. “Earth angel. That’s me.”

“Sure is,” Harry told him. Sophia handed out room keys, the same tired old routine, and there was no plan for tomorrow and nowhere to go and Sophia waved them all away. It was hard to carry Louis up the stairs to room 342, but Harry would move mountains for his love and that was what he did. In their new room Harry kicked off his shoes and he set Louis down on the softest bed he had ever rested on and he kneeled between Louis’s knees as his head lolled lifelessly to help him out of his sneakers. 

“This is it, isn’t it?” Louis asked as Harry tucked his shoes into the corner of the room beside his own. He tugged Louis’s dirty jeans off and then his T-shirt and he worked at the button of his own jeans as he asked Louis what he meant.

“This is the last night,” Louis clarified. “The death of you and me. This is it for us. Isn’t it?”

“I think it might be,” Harry replied. He pulled his shirt over his head and he crawled into bed beside Louis and for a long, long time they stared at each other and did not say a word. Louis was the one to break the silence in the dark, dropping one soft hand to Harry’s cheek and drawing in close. 

“Kiss me,” Louis said. And Harry did. He had not brushed his fucking teeth in a day and neither had Louis and still the bitter taste of alcohol clung to his lips but that was all right. The two of them painted an ugly picture but it was nothing Harry would ever want to change. When they pulled apart Louis made a soft humming noise and he said,

“Fuck me.”

“Not now,” Harry said as if they had forever. But it was there, the longing he felt for the best and most beautiful sex he could ever hope to have, but Louis was high on some shitty pills and Harry was tired to the marrow in his bones.

“Tomorrow,” Louis said. “Don’t send me away without…without making love to me…one more time.” He began to yawn, sleep tugging him away, and Harry wanted to smile because Louis was the earth, the moon, and the stars, but he couldn’t. 

“Never,” Harry agreed, and Louis forced his eyes open wide to offer Harry a lazy, lovely smile.

“I’m going to love you until the day I die, Harry Styles,” Louis said, and Harry nodded because he knew the feeling well. 

“And I you,” Harry said. 

“Hey,” Louis said after a quiet minute.

“What?”

“Ask me.”

“Ask you?” 

“Yes, please. One more time. Ask me.” 

And it hurt, it fucking hurt, but Harry would go to the ends of the earth to give Louis what he wanted even if it meant the shattering of his own body, heart, or mind. 

“Okay,” Harry said. “Marry me.” And Louis smiled, bitter and angry, as he began to fall asleep. 

“Any day of the week, babe,” Louis said, and it was the last thing he said before sleep overtook him and pulled him down, down, down into the bed where he could finally be at peace. And Harry watched him sleep, reaching for his cheek and pulling back more times than he could count. He owed Louis peace. He owed it to Louis to leave him be. So he did. Harry did not sleep at all because when he woke up in the morning it would be the end. Maybe, somehow, if he stayed awake morning would never come and he could keep Louis here at his side forever. 

Louis breathed in and out and Harry tried not to think of the man he would become without him. 

 

As dawn broke in pink and red over Milan Harry rose from the bed and prepared himself for the inevitable. He tucked the sheets around Louis as he forfeited his half and made his way to the bathroom. A scorching hot shower was almost enough to ease the stabbing pains from his bones but not quite enough to make it any easier to stand there and pretend this was not the end of all things. He didn’t mean to but he slid down the wall of the shower and sprawled on the floor, letting the water run down his body, and he lay there for so long the water began to run tepid and then cold. He shivered and he quaked but he couldn’t make his limbs obey him and still he lay there without moving. 

(Hypothermia did not sound like such a bad way to go; maybe it would be easier than facing the day and saying goodbye.)

But he heard his phone ringing from the bedroom and he groaned, dragging himself painfully to his feet and slamming the water off with one hand. 

“Fuck,” he said, to himself more than anything. He missed the call but he knew who it was; only Sophia would be calling him at dawn to tell him what he needed to know.

(Flight information, Louis’s replacement, the time and date of Milan’s shiny new show. Harry knew she would do it all and more for him no matter what she had claimed in the damn bus; she would do anything for him.)

She called again while Harry wrapped a towel around his middle and he padded from the bathroom still dripping as he missed the call. And he scooped the phone into his hand, unwilling to wake Louis for something so trivial, and he opened up the balcony door of their room and slipped out into the cold morning. As he closed the door behind him she called once again and this time he was ready.

“Hello?” he asked, and there she was, all business because she did not want to cry. 

“Hi, Haz,” she said. “I’m sorry to wake you up.”

“’S’kay,” Harry shrugged. “What do you need?” He knew, he knew, but it did not make it any easier to hear.

“The flight leaves at four o’clock. I rescheduled the show for two nights from now at the same venue; we’re damn lucky they were understanding. And I love you. I love you so much.” 

The last part caught Harry by surprise and he shifted the phone out of one painfully stiff hand and into the other. 

“Love you, too, Soph,” he told her. “You okay?”

“Are _you_?” Harry craned his neck to look behind him through the foggy glass of the sliding door as Louis as he slept. 

“Not at all.” And Sophia made a tiny strangled noise that was never going to get any easier to hear. 

“I figured,” she said, trying her best to be brisk even as Harry broke her heart for the millionth time without even trying. 

“Soph,” Harry said, shifting his phone again to keep from dropping it from numb fingers over the balcony. “I’m going to survive this, aren’t I?”

And for a long moment he listened to her breathe from the other line. 

“You can survive anything, sweet pea,” she finally said. “I promise you that.”

“Okay.” He trusted her with his life and she knew it and Sophia would never lie to him. He closed his eyes against the red dawn and he felt his wet hair freezing into strands of ice as he stood. 

“Harry, you don’t have to let him go forever,” she said so softly her words almost got lost on their way to him. 

“I know.” 

“He will be waiting for you once the tour is over…if you ask him to.” 

“I know.” 

“Is that what you want?”

“No.”

“You don’t want him anymore?” She was clinical like a fucking doctor diagnosing a broken heart and Harry couldn’t take it. 

“I want him more than anything,” Harry replied. 

“So why don’t you give him the choice to wait for you?”

“I’m no good for him.”

“That’s not true. Haz, it’s not. Have you seen the way he looks at you? He thinks the world of you. It’s this life that’s no good for him, sweetheart, it’s not you.”

“Soph…”

“I’ve never seen someone so in love, you stupid fuck,” Sophia cried, and all at once the neat and tidy Sophia was gone as she choked back a sob that sent static buzzing in Harry’s ear. “If you throw him away I am never going to forgive you.”

“Fine,” Harry said. “Don’t forgive me. I don’t care. All I care about is Lou, Sophia, do you hear me? I don’t care what you think or what the band thinks or anything.” He began to shout as she cried on the other line and he felt so guilty it weighed his stomach down like his guts were full of rocks but still he couldn’t stop once he began. “All I want is Lou to be happy. And he can’t be happy with me anymore. Okay? It’s over. Let it be over.”

“Haz, Jesus, you…”

“Stop. I gotta go.” Harry was cruel and he hung up on her and before he could change his mind he forced his numb fingers to unfold and he let his phone hit the pavement three long stories below. He watched it fall and he watched it shatter and he ripped the door open behind him and forced himself to move. In the room where Louis lay he turned the heat up as high as it would go and stripped off the frozen towel he had wrapped around himself. He shivered in the middle of the room and tried to shake January from his icy limbs. 

It was over, it was over, and he only had eight hours to go before he had to let Louis go. 

He forced himself to get dressed, pulling on his jeans and a clean T-shirt and a warm sweater, and he leaned heavy on the heater vent on the wall to warm up his back. From where he stood he watched Louis and he wondered how long he would have once Louis finally woke up. More than anything he wanted to wake Louis up and spend as much time loving him as possible. But he owed him a painless goodbye and a long, long rest and he was going to give him both even if it killed him. 

(He never knew that this was what love was, giving all of himself and more to Louis just to keep him alive and well.)

It was nearly ten in the morning by the time Louis stirred. Harry shoved off from the wall and by the time he made his way back to the bed and dropped unceremoniously to Louis’s side Louis had opened his eyes and raised his arm to wipe the sleep from them with his fingers. 

“Good morning,” Louis breathed even though the two of them knew there was nothing good about it. He turned his head and his eyes were crystal clear, free from the fog painkillers had given him, but his face twisted in pain as he remembered the ache in his back. “Ugh,” he said, his spine creaking as he lolled in bed. “Hi.”

“Hi,” Harry replied, not caring at all how weak his voice sounded. Louis heard and he offered Harry a wan smile and watched him where he sat.

“I love you,” Louis said.

“And I love you,” Harry replied. He wanted to brush Louis’s hair back and he wanted to slide the ring from his finger so he didn’t have to look at it and he wanted to kiss him until the pain slid from his blue, blue eyes. But what he did was say it again, making Louis’s lips quirk up into a real smile. “I love you,” Harry told him. 

“I love you, too.”

“I fucking love you.”

“And I fucking love you.” Louis tossed his head back to stretch and yawn and Harry marveled at the curve of his jaw and the hollow of his throat. He was perfect and he was Harry’s but he only had him for one day more and after that he would belong solely to the world Harry had stolen him from. Harry leaned in close and Louis closed the distance, kissing Harry hard on the mouth and nipping at his lip. But when he pulled back he grew somber for a moment and he asked Harry, “How much longer?” 

“Your flight leaves at four.”

“Not much time,” Louis breathed.

“Not enough,” Harry agreed. 

“Hey,” Louis said as if they world was not ending. “Make the most of it, Harry. I’m yours.” And Sophia had told him he did not have to let go forever and maybe this was not the end of all things but it was ending, it was over, and Harry slid his hands down Louis’s ribs to his underwear for the last goddamn time. 

“Yours,” Louis promised him, and it was all Harry could have ever asked for. He kissed Louis with all the stupid things he should have said and Louis was warm enough to finally shake the icy cold from Harry’s body. They moved together in the warmest bed Harry had ever laid in and Louis began to moan, his eyes closing as Harry moved deep inside him, and he was beautiful and he was the sun streaming through the window. 

Harry moved slow, uninterested in the finish line. He was intent on feeling Louis all around him, memorizing the smell of him and the sound of his voice whimpering Harry’s name and the soft, soft skin on the insides of his thighs. Louis cried his name and Harry cried his and Harry rolled his hips so slowly he hardly moved at all, Louis coming apart at the seams as everything painful and cold fell away. 

“Love you,” Louis said. “Love you, love you.”

And Harry pressed a kiss to Louis’s chest and told him, “And I love you.” And it was over, it was over, and all the time in the world condensed all at once to seven hours, six, five, four, three, two. As the two of them lay tangled together in bed and watched the time tick by Harry waited to hear the inevitable knocking at the door as Sophia came for them. 

And she came and she pounded on the door and she was angry at Harry for letting his phone crash to the parking lot but she stopped the way she shouted through the door once he pulled it open wearing nothing but his underwear slung low on his hips and she looked so damn sad Harry wanted to cry.

“It’s okay,” he told her. “We’re fine.”

They left The Troves behind to take a cab to the airport and it was just as well. Niall would have cried at the loss of Louis and Liam would have pretended he did not want to do the same. And this way Harry could be alone in his pain, Sophia always knowing when to leave him be. He could do this alone just like he did everything else. 

The ride was entirely too short and Harry held Louis’s hand tight in his own, Louis’s stupid emerald ring slicing into his palm just as it always did. And maybe he was going to keep the damn ring and maybe he was going to try and press it into Louis’s hand but either way the cab they rode in stopped before the airport and Louis untangled his hand from Harry’s to climb out into the cold. Sophia paid the driver and he thanked her as he popped open the trunk where Louis had slung his bag. Harry grabbed it and Sophia snapped the trunk closed as Louis turned his head away to glance up at the airport. Already the sun was beginning to set all around them, nightfall only an hour or two away, and they climbed the steps up to the automatic doors that hissed open for them to let them inside. 

“This way,” Sophia said, and she led the way through the buzzing airport with two dazed and lovesick boys trailing behind her. Harry stole glances at Louis but every damn time Louis looked away. And maybe he was staring at Harry just as long as Harry stared at him, but just like in every other way they were never in the same place at the same time. 

Louis had managed to stuff his entire life into one crammed bag and Harry swung it from his hand, passing by luggage check because the damn bag was small enough to carry on the plane. And Louis’s life was just as small as he was and Sophia began to speak as they walked, tossing her head back so they could hear her.

“I set you up in the same hotel,” she said to Louis. “I know it’s not that great of a place but it’s the best I could do for a long term stay. It’s all paid for, Lou, and I want you to stay as long as you need to. And for the love of God, keep in touch with me so I don’t get an ulcer from worrying about you.” And for the first time since stepping foot into the airport Louis caught Harry’s eye to quirk his lips up into a semblance of a smile that said _isn’t she crazy_? And she was but she was crazy for Louis just as much as Harry was. 

“Thank you, Soph,” Louis said, and just like always she told him it was not a problem; it was her pleasure. Sophia walked fast as she always did in her crazy high heels and Harry and Louis panted with the effort of keeping up with her. Far, far before Harry was ready Sophia stopped and he nearly crashed into her at the terminal with Louis at his side.

“Here,” she said. “You don’t have much time, the flight leaves in half an hour. Get your ass on that plane, sweetheart.” She smiled and Louis smiled back and in a flurry of long dark hair Sophia lunged for him, giving Louis the tightest hug she could without hurting his back. He hugged her back with one arm and when she did not let go he gave in, dropping his chin to her shoulder and holding on for dear life. And there were people all around them, so many people Harry could hardly breathe, and not one of them mattered. From far away Harry heard Louis’s bag hit the tile floor as he watched Sophia hug him, pulling back to smack a kiss that left a lipstick stain on one cheek that she wiped off with the sleeve of her coat. 

“Sorry,” she said, and Louis grimaced in pain that had nothing to do with his creaking spine. 

“It’s all right,” he said. His eyes flicked to Harry and Sophia said,

“You don’t have a lot of time. Harry, I’ll meet you outside. Okay?” And she gave them space and Harry could not bear to look at her as she clicked away and just like that he and Louis were all alone in the middle of a crowded airport. 

Louis spoke first. “I didn’t want this,” he said, and Harry nodded.

“I know.”

Louis twisted his gold ring around and around his finger, looking down at it and away from Harry. “I’m going to keep this,” he said. “Just in case.” When he looked up at Harry again he thought just for a moment he saw the future in those deep blue eyes, a flurry of a wedding in a field and a honeymoon somewhere warm in South America, a thousand rock shows with Louis waiting for him backstage. But just like that it was going, going, gone and Louis watched Harry for any sign of a reply and it was a long time before Harry could unstick his throat to give him one.

“Just in case,” he managed. He slipped the awful emerald ring from his own hand and he looked at it in the ugly florescent lights of the airport and before he even tried to offer it to Louis he said, 

“No. Just in case.” 

“Lou…” He couldn’t keep it. It weighed too much in his hand as he cupped it in his palm and it always scratched him, causing pain when there was already more than enough. “I can’t,” he said, but with one slender hand Louis reached out for the ring and took it from Harry’s palm. 

“You can.” Louis waited and Harry knew what he wanted. He splayed his fingers out and Louis slipped the stupid silver ring back onto his finger like it fucking belonged there. “Okay?”

“Okay,” Harry said because he had no choice. 

Over the loudspeaker came an announcement, counting down the final minutes Louis had until he had to board. 

“I gotta go,” Louis said. He held out one hand and Harry passed his bag into it, the heavy bag weighing Louis down and making him stand crookedly before Harry. “The world needs you, Harry,” he said. “Make sure you give them hell.” And Harry laughed because hot tears pressed at the backs of his eyes and if he did not laugh he was going to cry. “Love you,” Louis said, and he stood on his tiptoes to kiss Harry on the cheek. His lips were hot and he let the kiss linger, pulling back only to kiss him again. 

(Harry wanted to scream; he wanted everyone to feel the same pain he did.)

“I love you,” he told Louis, and tears splashed down Louis’s cheeks and stained the collar of his shirt. “I’m sorry I wasn’t ready for you.”

“It’s all right,” Louis said. “In any other life you would have been. So maybe you’ll catch up in this one.” And he smiled, bright and warm and alive, and Harry crushed him to his chest and dropped his chin into his messy hair. “It’s okay,” Louis said, voice muffled as he pressed his tear streaked cheek to Harry’s shirt over his fucking heart. “It’s okay, Harry. I promise you, loving you was so, so good.” And Harry did not respond to the past tense because nothing could have made it any better. He wanted to draw Louis’s lips to his and kiss him stupid so maybe he would forget he had to go. But he didn’t and he didn’t and the final call buzzed over the loudspeaker and Louis ducked out from under Harry’s arms.

“You’re okay,” Louis told him, and he turned away. Harry watched him go and he thought maybe this was the part where he was supposed to call Louis back and beg him to stay. But it wasn’t and he didn’t. Louis walked away and Harry watched him disappear and he was no longer going. He was gone. And Harry looked down at the dirty tile floor and tried to remember who he was when he was all alone.


	21. Chapter 21

The bed in the back of the bus was far too big for Harry and he spent the night curled up on one of the leather sofas against the walls. He had not said a word since leaving Louis at the airport and even thinking the name hurt too much, choking him every time it crossed his mind, and The Troves gave him a wide berth and for the silence he was glad. What he could not escape was the ring tight on his finger and as long as he raised his hand above his head to watch the tarnished thing sparkle in the dim light of the bus he could not bring himself to throw it away like he did to his phone. 

It was all he had left of Louis and it was going to have to be enough. Time was a brutal bastard and it marched on, the night rolling over Harry like a wave and morning warming the bus far before he had gotten used to the dark of the night. Sophia shook him awake sometime in the fuzzy morning to brush his hair back from his forehead and say,

“He’s home.” She offered her phone to Harry to show him the text Louis had sent her but it was too much and Harry closed his eyes before he could see the words on the screen.

“Thank you,” he groaned, the first words he had spoken in sixteen goddamn hours. 

“Do you want me to make you some tea?” Sophia asked, and he did not mention the mug he had left on the roof of the bus the other day he never drank. He nodded, lying out on the couch as The Troves and the roadies stretched and woke up in their bunks, and Sophia bustled in the kitchenette with a quiet hum passing her pursed lips. Harry listened to her and watched the morning rays of the sun dance on the ceiling 

(“It still does that?”)

and waited for the hot mug she passed into his hand. 

“It’s mint,” she said. “Should be good for your throat.”

“Thank you,” he said again. He sat up and the world spun around him for a moment as he got his bearings. He felt crooked and wrong without the weight of Louis’s hand in his hair to steady him. And a sharp pang of pain in his stomach reminded him to stop thinking the name; it was only going to get worse. Harry had survived too much this year, far too much to be expected to simply carry on, but he blew gently on his tea to cool it and carried on the best he could. 

“Is it all right?” Sophia asked as he took a careful sip. 

“It’s great,” he told her. He tried to smile, he really did, but it felt all wrong on his face and Sophia only frowned in reply. 

Niall was the first to emerge from his bunk, yawning and bare chested, and he looked at Harry and looked away just as quickly.

(He was not going to break but Niall didn’t know that; Niall was scared to be the one to snap him in two and he supposed he understood.)

“Good morning, Nialler,” Harry said. Niall raised his eyebrows and said,

“Nialler?” He was right; Harry had not called him that in years, but somehow it slipped from him and he shrugged in reply to the question in Niall’s voice. 

“Good morning, Niall,” Harry amended, taking a sip of his too hot tea as Niall offered him a pitiful smile.

“That’s more like it. Can I sit with you?” He was not going to say Louis’s name and Harry was grateful; breaking seemed a lot more likely if the boys were going to walk on eggshells around him in fear of causing it. 

“Sure,” Harry said. Niall sat down hard and Sophia offered him the tea she had been making herself and he took it, thanking her quietly as she pulled a third mug from the cabinets above the sink to make more. 

“What are you guys doing on your two days off?” Sophia asked with her back to Harry and Niall. 

“No idea,” Niall said, wincing as he tried to drink from his steaming mug. “What about you, Haz? Any plans?”

“None,” Harry replied. The future before him was nothing but nothingness, uncertainty painting a dark picture he couldn’t make out. That was okay. He was fine. He would be. 

He had no choice.

And he wondered what Louis was doing now, if jet lag had taken its toll on him yet. It was the middle of the night back home in New York and Louis should have been sleeping. But Harry had the feeling the two of them were awake together and he should have wiped the thought from his mind but he thought Louis was probably thinking of him just as much as Harry was trying not to think of Louis. It was impossible to keep Louis from his mind and he wished he had the willpower to get rid of the ring that tethered them together. But he couldn’t. He wouldn’t. 

Sophia sat at his side and she and Harry and Niall sipped from hot mugs and did not say a word. The air was thick with questions neither one of them was going to ask Harry and he wanted to ease the tension but more than that he wanted nothing to do with what they wanted to ask him.

(“How are you holding up?” “Are you going to survive this?”)

He could not, would not bear it. 

As the morning wore on Liam and Nick and Eleanor emerged from their bunks and not one person on the bus had anything to do with themselves on the long day laid out before them. Harry was desperate for anyone to speak, to hear someone’s voice as they spoke about anything trivial to take his mind from the gaping hole in his chest. But there was nothing anyone could say. 

(Maybe there was something he could do.)

He asked Sophia for her phone and without questioning him she handed it over. She more likely than not thought he wanted to call Louis, his phone number lost to Harry along with his phone, but Louis was the last person Harry was going to call. He needed a friend and he needed one who had no idea what had happened in the long day in Milan. Harry hopped out of the tour bus and out into the January morning, the sky a crystal clear blue that made his heart ache painfully in his chest. His fingers did the work for him, dialing the number he memorized years ago, and it was the middle of the goddamn night back home in New York but Zayn answered on the second ring.

“Soph,” he said, just a little bit breathless but still the same old Zayn Harry wanted. 

“Guess again,” Harry said, and he heard Zayn shifting the phone to his other ear as he replied,

“Haz!” He sounded overjoyed, so bright Harry wanted to cry, and the thoughts of keeping Zayn in the dark left him as quickly as they had come. “What’s up, man? How are you?” 

“I’m pretty terrible,” he admitted, carding his hand through his hair and tipping his head back to the sky. 

“Why?” Zayn asked. 

“It’s Lou,” Harry said. “He’s gone.” 

Zayn was quiet for so long Harry pulled the phone away from his ear to make sure he had not hung up on him. 

“Zayn?” Harry said. He needed Zayn, he needed to talk, and the wave of relief that hit him when Zayn replied warmed him despite the icy cold. 

“I’m so sorry, Haz,” Zayn said. “I’m really sorry.” He paused and Harry clutched to the phone as tight as he could. “Do you, uh…do you want to talk about it?”

He did, he did, but there was a part of him that cried out in agony at the thought of admitting all he had done and he said, “No. Tell me about your life, please. Everything. How are you?” 

Again Zayn paused. When he spoke he spoke fast, energetic as Harry had ever heard him as he told the long tale of his life since he had left. (There was no way it had been less than a handful of days; it felt like it had been a thousand years since he had heard Zayn’s voice.)

“I’m really good,” Zayn said. “Better than I thought I would be. Perrie is…Perrie is good. She’s real scared, I think, that I’m not going to stick around. But I told her I’m here to the bitter end. I know you…I know you don’t really like her and I know how badly I fucked up by…by, you know. But I kinda feel like this was meant to happen, you know? It’s stupid. But I saw her, Haz, and there it was. It’s real. My fucking kid. Can you believe it?”

“I can’t,” Harry honestly replied. But Zayn was good and there was no doubt in Harry’s mind Zayn was going to be the best damn father he could be. He told him so and he could hear the smile in his voice as he replied.

“Thank you, Haz. That means a lot. Listen, how’s the band?” He spoke lightly and Harry wanted to cry, but instead he told the truth.

“We’re okay,” he said. “We’re surviving.” And as an afterthought, “Lou was incredible up there.”

“Oh,” Zayn replied, all at once remembering that Louis had stood in his place. “Oh, Haz, I’m sorry, what…”

“It’s okay. We don’t know what we’re doing now. No idea. Soph will find us someone new. She always comes through for us.”

“Except in terms of opening bands,” Zayn laughed, offering up an awkward chuckle to diffuse the pain he must have heard spike in Harry’s voice. 

“That’s right,” Harry said, and Zayn went off as he raved about the magazine cover he had seen Michael Clifford on back home in New York. 

“I really hate his stupid smug face,” Zayn said, “and I got kicked out of the bookstore for throwing all the copies of the magazine in the garbage and pouring my coffee over them. Perrie was mortified.”

“That’s my Zayn,” Harry said, and already he felt just a little bit better. Zayn asked him when they were going to be in New York, already losing track of the Head Space Tour in his absence, and Harry reminded him the last show was at Madison Square Garden at the tail end of March, on Saturday the twenty-eighth. 

“Ah,” Zayn said, “I’ll be there.” 

“Means a lot,” Harry managed around the lump in his throat. 

“Whoever replaces me,” Zayn said, “make sure they know they’ll never be as good as me.” And Harry remembered the way Louis trembled backstage, scared out of his mind to replace Zayn and Harry said, 

“I think they’ll know from the start.” And it was easy conversation, Zayn whining that Perrie was dead set on the name Elizabeth if they were to have a girl.

“I don’t know, Zayn,” Harry said when Zayn complained the name was far too old fashioned for the daughter of a rock star. “Lizzie Malik is a helluva cute name.” And Zayn laughed and so did Harry and maybe he was always going to have a hole in his bleeding heart but maybe slowly he could let it get smaller and smaller inside him. 

(The ring on his finger reminded him there was not a chance.)

Zayn told him he better take care of himself and Harry told him he would. He always did in the end, didn’t he?

“I’ll be fine,” Harry said, and Zayn asked right before they hung up,

“Do you want me to check up on him?” 

(Him, the great and powerful nameless boy it hurt to even think of.)

“No,” Harry said. “No, he’ll be all right.” He did not know that, not for sure, but Louis always was the stronger of the two. He could handle heartbreak without breaking himself and he was not going to break into pieces. (Harry did not know that for sure but he had to think it for his own sake.) 

“Let me know,” Zayn said, “And I’ll be there in a second.” He paused for a long moment and said, “I miss him.”

( _I miss him, too, like the fucking Earth would miss the moon_.)

“You have no idea.”

“I’m sorry. I guess I have no right to say that.” And it was true but Harry told him it was all right. Louis had been a heartbreaker just as much as Harry was and each and every person he came into contact with fell dizzyingly in love. 

“Anyway, I have to go. Tell the guys I said hello.”

Harry told him he would and they hung up the phone and for a long time he did nothing but stand perfectly still in the sun and wait for his breath to come back to him. Finally he heard the door of the bus open behind him with a hiss and Sophia clicked towards him. He flinched when her hand landed light on his shoulder, not used to simple, easy touches that were not warm as Louis’s skin. 

“I called Zayn,” Harry said before Sophia could ask him about Louis. “Needed a friend.” He handed Sophia back her phone and she rolled her eyes, feigning anger at him claiming she was not enough for him, and he would have apologized if he thought she was actually upset with him. 

“What did Zayn say?”

“He offered to check up on him. I said no.”

“Maybe you should have told him to.”

“No.” He needed to do anything but think about Louis Tomlinson, anything in the world. Waiting to hear from Zayn about how Louis was feeling would probably fucking kill him. If he pretended Louis was fine he would be okay. Imagining Louis burdened with half the pain Harry felt was enough to shatter his resolve in two. 

“Oh, Haz,” Sophia cried because she could see he was going to cry before he even knew himself, and as tears splashed hot down his cheeks Sophia stepped close to him and enveloped him in her arms. She was good at what she did, keeping Harry sane the best she could, but he quaked with tears and there was nothing she could do. “I know,” she said even though she had no fucking idea. “I know, I know, you’re okay.” She had one hand in his hair and the other at the small of his back, both of his arms tight around her middle, and she cooed in his ear but he was going, going, gone. He sank into her and with all his weight on Sophia her knees began to buckle, but everyone was stronger than him and she stood resolute without bending beneath him. 

It hurt, it hurt, his throat on fire as he cried, and he made pathetic noises as he tried to stem the flow of tears like a goddamn animal being stomped on. 

“I know it hurts, Haz, I know.” But she didn’t, she didn’t, and he was in unmeasurable pain as he tried uselessly to get Louis off his mind. He was everywhere, in the ring heavy on Harry’s hand and in the long hair he had told Harry not to cut and in the photo album Harry had kicked under the sofa in the bus where he would not have to look at it. 

“Soph,” Harry pleaded, loosening the ring on his finger so it clattered at their feet to the pavement. “Soph, get rid of it. Please, I can’t do it anymore.” And Sophia pulled back and she scooped the ring into her palm. 

“No,” Sophia said, trying to hand it back just as Louis had. “No, you have to keep it.”

“Keep it for me, then,” Harry said. “Keep it safe, but keep it away from me.”

“Okay,” Sophia said. “I can do that.” And he watched it slip into her pocket and disappear from view and he wanted desperately to ask for it back and slip it on and never, ever take it off, but it was gone and he should let it stay that way. 

“I want to see someone,” Harry said, abrupt and erratic as he stood shaking before Sophia, and if Sophia was startled she did not let on. “A doctor, a therapist. A fucking hypnotist. I don’t care; I just want to be better. I need to be better.”

“Done,” Sophia said. “As soon as we get back to the States. Okay?” Harry nodded. He could learn to be someone who deserved Louis, couldn’t he? He could grow up and he could fucking try, for himself if for no one else. He couldn’t do this anymore. He wouldn’t. The thought of spilling secrets to someone who took notes on every tic and every gesture scared Harry more than almost anything, but the thought of being trapped in the endless cycle of drinking and falling apart and losing scared him even more. 

“Cut my fucking hair,” Harry went on, watching Sophia double and triple through a painful haze of tears. “Please, can you do that, too?”

“Eleanor will,” she said. “Hey, don’t cry. Eleanor will do it for you.”

“Now,” Harry pleaded. “Now, God, I need it now.” Louis loved him, Louis loved him, and maybe the more he changed the easier it would be to forget it. 

“Haz, calm down,” Sophia tried, but Harry wiped his eyes furiously, dodging past her to get to the tour bus. “Harry, hey!” He ignored her, he ignored her, and he slammed the door of the bus open so fast Nick and Eleanor gasped in shock where they sat in the kitchenette, Eleanor sitting on the counter with Nick standing at her side. 

“Eleanor,” Harry said, and Eleanor pushed Nick lightly by the chest so she could hop down and meet him in the aisle of the bus. 

“What’s wrong?” she asked as Sophia burst through the door behind him. “Have you been crying?” She was sweet and she was gentle, her forehead creasing as she reached for his face, but he took hold of her hand to stop her wiping away his tears and he said,

“I need a haircut. Now.” And as an afterthought he added, “Please.” 

“Sure,” she said. “No problem. Stop crying, okay? Let me find some scissors.” She darted back into the kitchenette and dug through the drawers, tossing spoons and knives onto the counter and forcing Nick to get out of her way as she flung open the cabinets above her head. And Harry sank onto the sofa and buried his head in his hands and Sophia knew better than to go to him now and he heard her walk to join Eleanor as they searched for a pair of scissors. 

“Ah!” Eleanor cried, and she snapped open the scissors she found and Harry raised his head to watch her near him, scissors held tight in her fist. “Okay, she said. “Come here, then.” But Sophia shouted,

“Outside!” and Eleanor offered her free hand to Harry. He took it and she hauled him to his feet and she pulled him along towards the front of the bus. On the way Nick called her and she turned around as he tossed a towel towards her that she caught in the hand clutching the scissors.

“Thanks!” she called, and then they were out the door and back into the icy light of day. “I’m shorter than you so I’m gonna need you to sit,” she said, and without pause he sat down hard cross legged on the pavement and let her toss the towel around his shoulders. “Are you sure about this?” she asked as she hovered behind him, and Harry nodded. 

“I’m sure.” 

“Okay.” And she was good and she trusted him as much as he trusted her and she began to rake her fingers through the tangled mess that was his hair. “Hold on,” she said, and Harry closed his eyes as she vanished into the bus, slamming the door behind her. When she returned she apologized profusely for the coldness of the day as she sprayed down his hair with her apple scented detangling spray and began to brush away the knots. 

“Jesus, Haz, you have such beautiful hair,” she gushed, and that was the reason he needed it gone. Louis had said the same damn thing and it needed to go, yet another reminder of what he had left behind at the goddamn airport. It hurt his scalp and it hurt his neck as she attacked his hair, combing curls back over his head and down the nape of his neck. He let her manhandle him, the pain of her brush a pain he could cope with. The bristles scraped at his ears and she apologized each time but it was all right. She sprayed his hair down with water next, making him shiver in the sun, and for that she apologized once more.

“It’s not your fault it’s cold,” Harry told her. “Stop trying to- ow!” 

“Sorry, sorry!” Eleanor said, sounding anguished as she grappled with a particularly stubborn knot. “When was the last time you brushed this out?”

“Dunno,” Harry honestly replied. 

“Rock stars,” Eleanor teased, and she pulled playfully at his hair but her teasing did nothing to make him feel better. Louis did the same damn thing. He pulled at Harry’s hair and Harry lived for the feeling but it was all wrong when it was Eleanor standing behind him with a brush in one hand. He wanted to beg her to stop but all at once her hands fell away and she appeared before him, peering hard into his face with curious eyes. 

“Are you sure you want to do this?” she asked. “Last chance.”

“I’m sure,” Harry told her. 

“Okay,” she said. “Okay.” And her face vanished and from behind him he heard the scissors open in her hand. “Here goes nothing,” she said, and she began to snip. Harry winced as the cold scissors hit the back of his neck as she cut, asking him how short he wanted it. 

“I don’t care,” Harry said. “So short you can’t pull it.” And she laughed behind him because wasn’t it all just one big joke? And she told him she could do that and for a long minute she cut in silence. 

“It’s going to be weird,” she said, “seeing you with nice, neat hair. You won’t even be our Harry anymore!” 

(Wasn’t that the idea?)

“Yeah,” Harry said. “Hope you still like me.”

“Nothing in the world could make me stop liking you, Harry Styles,” she said. A moment later she stood before him, combing his hair over his eyes so he could hardly make out her wavy brown hair through his own. And she leaned in, closed the scissors and cut. He winced, surprised at how badly the loss hurt, but she smiled sympathetically as long, long curls hit the pavement at Harry’s knees. He ached from the way he sat and Eleanor held onto her back for a moment, wincing in pain, and Harry wanted to tell her she could take a break but she would never accept it. She was on a mission, snipping so fast it made Harry’s head spin, and as half an hour turned to an hour he felt his head (and heart) grow lighter and lighter. 

“Hey, look!” Eleanor crowed, taking hold of his chin and tilting it up to make him look at her. “Who knew there was a real human boy under all that hair?” And she laughed like the tinkling of bells and Harry would never have been able to express the gratitude he felt for her and the way she tried her best to get him to smile along with her. He tried, he really did, but he was tired and he was scared as she tugged at the hair around his ears and gave it a few short snips. 

“You look good, Haz,” she said, affection filling her voice. “Real good; I promise.” 

“Thank you,” he told her. 

“I’m almost done,” she assured him. She disappeared again and combed down the wet hair at the back of his neck, sending icy drips of water cascading down his back under the towel around his shoulders. 

“Ahh,” he breathed, and she laughed and apologized at the same time, choking on her own spit as she tried not to laugh as he shivered. 

“Sorry, sorry. Okay, I’m done.” He heard her slip the scissors into the pocket of her jeans and then she was back, tilting his chin back and forth to examine her work. He followed her face with his eyes as she scrutinized his hair, using the hand not clutching his chin to tousle his wet hair and dig her fingers into his scalp. 

“You look real good,” she finally said, and she drew back and wiped her wet hands on his towel. “Do you want to see?”

“No,” Harry said, but it hurt when she tossed her head back to laugh at the winter sky and he said, “Yes, I do.” She laughed as she pulled out her phone and pulled up the camera and when she turned the screen to Harry he hardly recognized himself at all. “Oh, wow.”

“I know!” Eleanor cried, watching him with anxious eyes as he stared at himself in the mirror in her hand. Eleanor had cut his hair the shortest it had ever been, tousling it so it laid the same way it had when it was long. It no longer curled around his ears and down to the collar of his shirt, shagging in his eyes in a wild mess. He looked clean cut and awake, the stubble on his face misplaced without the mane of hair. And he flicked his eyes up to Eleanor and she grinned, giving him a questioning okay? with her hand, and he nodded.

“Thank you, Eleanor,” he said. “You’re amazing.” 

(He felt lighter; he felt freer. He was not Louis’s, not in this life, and there was nothing tethering him to his stupid hair anymore.)

“I’m glad you like it,” she said, snapping the towel off his shoulders and shaking hair to the pavement. “Wait until Soph sees you!” She mussed his hair once more and she draped the towel over her arm, offering him one hand to help him to his feet. His numb legs nearly gave way and again she laughed, a bright ray of light, and she steadied him because steadying him was all his best friends ever did. 

“Want to blow Sophia’s mind?” Eleanor asked, and Harry leaned his wet head on top of hers as he got his balance and she chuckled beneath him. 

“Yes,” he told her. Together they opened up the door to the bus and hopped inside, Eleanor spreading her arms wide to get the attention of the band and Sophia and Nick in the living area, and she cried, 

“Ta-da!” And just like that Sophia was on her feet, leaping up to take Harry’s face in her hands and tilt his chin back and forth. 

“Oh, Haz,” she breathed, and she was going to cry and he was going to lose it. Her chin quivered as she took him in, twisting his head to get a look at the back, and he wanted to tell her not to cry but she was a hurricane and there was no stopping her once she began. “You look so good, Haz.” 

“Thanks,” he said, knowing full well a haircut was not enough to give him color in his cheeks and fullness to his face, but she was kind enough to smile at him and tell him he looked good. Sophia thanked Eleanor profusely, squeezing her briefly to her chest, and Eleanor told her it was her pleasure as she hung the towel over her arm on the kitchenette sink. 

And Harry was tired, exhausted from the weight of smiling at Sophia and at Eleanor and at his band, and more than anything he wanted to sleep. But the sofas were full and the world was awake and he eyed the closed door at the back of bus. He couldn’t bear to go back there, the bed empty without a warm body at his side, but Sophia caught him looking and she said,

“Go to bed, sweetheart. It’s all right.” 

( _But he’s not there, the bed is empty, and I can’t go back there and face sleep without him_.)

“I can’t,” he told her, and all eyes were on him and he felt like he could catch on fire from the way they stared. He wanted to scream, but didn’t he always? His throat was raw and the fucking bed was empty and he was still the same Harry who lost the best part of his life regardless of the cut of his hair. 

“Harry,” Sophia said, eying him hard. “Harry, just go to bed. It’s fine. You’re fine. Trust me.” 

“Want someone to come back there and cuddle with you?” Niall offered, and Harry looked at him to scream but he was laughing, he was teasing, and Harry wanted so badly to be angry but Niall was only trying to help. 

“Anyone but you,” Harry shot back, and he ignored the pang in his chest as Niall tossed his head back to laugh.

(Did every last one of them catch the mannerism from Louis, catching him the way Harry did like a goddamn disease?)

“All right,” Liam said, heaving out of the sofa, “I’ll take one for the team. Come on, then.” And he held out one hand for Harry and Harry punched him in the arm instead, sending him crashing melodramatically to the sofa. 

“I’m going,” Harry said. “All of you assholes be quiet.” And he walked away. He heard Sophia scold them as he walked towards the back of the bus, telling them to talk quietly to let poor Harry get some sleep, and the urge to scream and tear a new hole in his throat nearly overwhelmed him. He was not delicate, he was not fragile, and maybe he was missing the second half of his fucking heart but what did he need that for anyway? Maybe the color of the sky made his stomach turn and maybe the way everything fell apart caused every part of him to ache and ache, but he was not going to give in and for the first damn time he was not about to give up. 

He could be okay again. Why the hell not? Louis would be fine, Louis always thrived, and far away from Harry there would be nothing stopping him from being as happy as he deserved. 

(Louis was not curled up alone in the bed Sophia paid for, pining over Harry. The thought was too much to bear and Harry shoved it far away.)

And his hand closed over the doorknob and it was a miracle it did not burn his fingers. He shoved the door open and there it was, the empty bed mussed from the last time Harry and Louis slept in it. Right in front of him it seemed so much bigger than it was, empty and huge, and Harry sank to the bed on the floor and tried his best to keep agony at arms’ length. Without meaning to he reached out to splay his fingers over Louis’s side of the bed, imagining the warmth Louis’s body used to leave. 

(He was going to die here, a broken heart shattering in his chest.)

The back of the bus was dim, the curtains drawn to cast the bed in shadows, and Harry’s eyes adjusted to the dark bit by bit. On the floor by the bed there were clothes everywhere, tossed aside after shows and never washed, and all at once the need to clean the room overpowered him. Maybe like the goddamn haircut cleaning would make him feel better, and any temporary relief would be a blessing. Pain weighed him down and he needed to be lightened until he was light enough to float away. He moved around the room like a madman, picking up shirts and socks and bundling them in his arms. He kicked over the half empty box of condoms by the bed and he watched them scatter across the floor, wrapped in shades of purple and blue and yellow. 

“Fuck,” he breathed. “Fuck, fuck.” He dropped the clothes in his arms into the corner of the tiny pseudo bedroom and dropped to his knees to gather up the rainbow of condoms into his arms. It was all a fucking joke, Harry fucking Styles all alone on his hands and knees, shoving condoms into the box in his hands with the beginnings of tears pressing at his eyes. He was pathetic and he was going to die here and there was nothing he could do. With one hand he closed the stupid yellow box and lobbed it at the closed window at the back of the bus and he made a noise that wanted to come out a sob but sounded closer to a gasp for air. 

“Fuck,” he sobbed once again. And it was over; he began to cry. It was hopeless, all of it, the dream of waking up and not needing Louis with every part of him still nothing but a dream. He threw clothes and shoes and useless cell phone chargers and guitar picks in piles in the corners of the room, not one bit of him caring what the people on the bus thought of his pitiful, childish tantrum. He kicked at the walls and the bus groaned beneath him. One shoe hit the window with a smack and the next one followed, and his world narrowed to the rage building inside him. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fucking fair, and why was it that he never got to keep the things he loved the most? His ring sat in Sophia’s pocket and Louis was on the other side of the earth, far away from where Harry could reach him.

And he picked up a shirt from the floor and it was the sweet smell of cinnamon that caught his attention as he aimed it towards the wall. It wasn’t his. It was Louis’s. Hands shaking and the stupid shirt blurry through a haze of tears, Harry choked as he unfurled the shirt and held it up before him. It was Louis’s stupid Rolling Stones baseball shirt, his favorite goddamn shirt, and wasn’t it all one big goddamn joke? He had left behind his favorite shirt and he was never going to get to wear it again, the shape of the stupid shirt showing off the curves of his fucking hips, and Harry balled the shirt up in his hands and pressed his nose to the fabric. It smelled like sugar and it smelled like him, warm and sweet, and the thought of Louis never wearing it again for someone else to admire him in was too painful for Harry to dwell on for a second longer. 

Before he could change his mind and keep the damn thing to sleep with at night, Harry threw open the bedroom door and shouted for anyone to hear, “Mail this fucking shit to him!” and slammed the door once again. He was pathetic but at least he knew it, kicking so hard at the walls that his legs began to ache, his bones crying out in protest. 

“Fuck!” he screamed, and there was no way not one person on the bus could hear his pain now. But they were learning and they were going to leave him alone and it was just as well; he could more likely than not kill the next person to try and talk to him. He locked the door and he rifled frantically through the room, searching for a trace of him, anything that was left. And there was a black button in a tiny plastic zippered bag, an extra button that had come paired with a bright red coat, and Harry threw that, too. 

The only thing he could not throw off was the smell of him all over the goddamn bed. He was never going to escape it and he was going to die here, choking on his own tears as he slammed his hands to his eyes to try and stop them from falling. It was useless, his head pounding with the effort of not crying out loud, and sharp sobs escaped him like the sound of busted guitar strings. With his hands on his face Harry dropped to the bed, creaking the mattress and shaking the bus beneath him. He couldn’t do this; he wouldn’t. How much pain was one man expected to carry in his lifetime, anyway? There was no way one person could carry this much and survive, never mind keep from falling apart. He couldn’t do this; he wouldn’t. 

It didn’t matter if Sophia found someone new to play guitar. They would never be The Troves again, not ever, and he would not endure the pain of starting over. The pain of watching the fans’ faces as he had to tell them Louis was going, going, gone. The pain of them knowing, crying out to hear the encore, Louis’s song. He could not (would not) play _Of the Color of the Sky_ without someone he trusted at his side; without Zayn or without Louis the song could not exist. He couldn’t do it. He wouldn’t. 

He had to face the world and tell them it was over. They must have seen it coming; everyone in the damn bus sure did. Harry’s eyes were sore from the desperate wiping away of his stupid tears, and he wiped his nose with his sleeve and did his best to try and get out of bed. But he was tired and he was sick and he fought a wave of hope that maybe he could go on. He had been knocked down a thousand times before and maybe dying was easy but maybe dying had given Harry new life.

Who was he kidding?

He rolled over the face the ceiling and as tears continued to fall he wiped at them with the backs of his hands and scolded himself for not being able to stop them. Louis had told him he was strong, hadn’t he? Louis had believed in him, seeing enough of a good thing inside him to fall in love. Was that worth anything at all now that he was gone? Harry closed his eyes and from beyond his closed door he heard Sophia, given away by her high heels, pick up the shirt he had thrown outside. She was good to him and she would send it Louis’s way; Harry opened his eyes so he would not have to imagine the look on Louis’s face when the package turned up at his door. 

Harry wanted to get up; he was desperate to ask Sophia to throw Louis’s goddamn ring into the package, too, but he was tired and whether he liked it or not sleep was going to take him. 

(Not once had he ever cried himself to sleep before; not as a kid when his parents fought like animals outside his bedroom door, not as a young adult when heroin withdrawals made him wish to die, not even after long nights when everything around him fell apart.)

He was pathetic and it was going to happen now, the stupid tears that stung his raw and painful eyes lulling him to sleep. And it didn’t fucking matter. Not at all. 

 

Time never failed to roll on and evening fell on the day of their rescheduled last show in Milan. Harry was a coward and he loved his band far too much to tell Sophia he was done. There were only two months left, after all, and he could survive. He always did. She was enthusiastic as she introduced them to the man who would finish the European leg of the tour with them; he was nice enough with a thin accent Harry couldn’t place but he was never going to be a part of them. Niall and Liam gave him a wide berth as he sat backstage with Zayn’s guitar, learning the parts right up until sound check. 

Not once did Harry ask him his name. 

Nick shoved Harry’s earpiece in and it was fucking show time. 

“You’re okay, honey, you’re okay,” Sophia said as she tried to card back the long hair that was no longer there. She was telling herself more than him, anyway, her eyes on Harry but not seeing him at all. She shoved him onstage and there they were, the crowd they had let down only a few nights ago, and as they erupted in cheers Harry couldn’t help but falter. They loved him, they loved him still, and he quaked as he reached for the microphone and cried out to them. 

“How are you this evening, Milan?” he called, and the cheers and the hands in the air doubled in volume all at once. “That’s what I like to hear!” he cried, putting away the boy who had cried himself to sleep and putting on the mask of Harry fucking Styles, the unshakable rock star who could tear the world apart if that was what he wanted. And they ate it up. They always did. 

The man behind Harry was talented and he knew what he was doing but he put flourishes on the guitar parts Zayn would never have added. Harry tripped on his own words more than once as he lost track of the songs, but he always got it right in the end. The crowd roared and the minutes soared and with a crash from Liam’s cymbals it was over. 

(This was the part when Liam and Niall would leave the stage and leave Harry and the man from Milan to sing Louis’s song.)

He couldn’t. He wouldn’t. He followed Niall and Liam offstage and after a moment of watching him, puzzled, the guitarist followed. 

“What’s wrong?” Sophia asked as the crowd began to scream for the encore. 

“I’m not doing it,” Harry said as he wrestled with his earpiece. “It’s his song, Soph. He’s not here and I’m not playing it. Tell them to go home.” He dropped his earpiece into Sophia’s open palm and he ignored her mouth as it dropped open, too. She would have to understand; he was not giving her a choice. He ignored the chanting and he ignored the screaming of his name and without looking back he walked away. 

Walking away was the only thing keeping him above water. He was not about to let himself drown now. 

He heard Sophia announce the end of the show with a tremor in her voice and he heard the audience scream in pain because they never fucking understood. They saw the same thing Harry saw; Louis no longer stood behind him. Why was it so hard for them to get that it was over and he was gone and never again was he going to play that stupid fucking love song? 

He pounded through the back door of the venue and since when was there only the sound of one pair of shoes on the pavement? More than anything Harry needed a fucking cigarette and he was going to wander the streets of Milan until he found one. He had left the venue in such a rush his coat still hung from a hook backstage, but he was overheated from the show and he had time before his sweat began to cool on his skin. He would be all right. He would be fine. All he needed was a goddamn cigarette. 

The first two people he asked didn’t speak English and he had been out in the cold for almost an hour before he found a woman smoking, leaning on a building with her legs crossed at the ankles. Harry asked sheepishly to bum a cigarette and a light and she obliged, tucking it between his teeth for him and lighting up the end.

“Thanks,” he said, and he tried to walk away back towards the venue and the waiting tour bus. 

“You all right?” the woman asked, and Harry turned around in a fog of smoke. 

“Fine,” he said. 

The woman shrugged and Harry thought she might have been pretty if she didn’t wear a look of unreasonable anger on her face the whole time she spoke to him. 

“You look a little lost,” she said. 

“I’m fine,” Harry repeated, and he turned away. “Thanks again,” he said, blowing a plume of smoke to the starry sky as he wandered away. He was not lost; he was not. Maybe he was sick of being mistaken for it and maybe it was about time he stopped acting like he was, but instead he stuffed his hands in his pockets and smoked the most delicious cigarette he had ever smoked as he made his way as slow as he could back the way he had come. 

When the tour bus loomed into view he cursed, fear spiking deep in his stomach at the line of fans waiting for him at the door. They hadn’t seen him yet and he stopped walking, goose bumps flying up his arms as he paused in the breezy night. If he had had his phone he would have called Sophia and begged her to rescue him but he was a fucking idiot, the same old Harry despite the desperate changes he made, and he was entirely on his own. He had no choice but to walk straight through them. Nothing in the world could have made him stop walking as he neared them, the first of the fans catching sight of him and closing the space between them with fast footsteps. 

“Haz!” they called, a dozen voices merging into one. “Haz, hey!” And he walked right by them. He kept his head down and there was no mane of hair to hide his eyes from them now; they saw everything as he walked by. And he was not going to cry, he was not crying to cry, and he felt hands landing on him as he walked and he ignored them all. The tour bus popped open and gratefully Harry stepped inside out of the cold, the fans behind him moaning in agony at the loss of him, and maybe he felt guilty but not guilty enough to give them any more of him. 

“Are you okay?” Sophia asked as they closed and locked the door of the bus and Harry collapsed into one of the cold leather sofas. 

“Fine,” Harry snapped for the second time that night. “Fine.” He waved away her offer of tea and he waved away the offer of joining the band’s game of War and he waved away the guitarist who offered him a bottle of beer from the fridge. 

He could do this. He could. He could.

 

The Troves had four remaining shows in Europe and they went by faster than Harry could have ever hoped for. They played two nights in Barcelona and two nights in Madrid and they said farewell to their guitarist and they said farewell to Europe and they packed up the tour bus in preparation for whichever band was going to fill its rooms once they were gone. Harry asked Sophia to pack up his bag for him and she was kind enough to oblige. He couldn’t bear to shuffle through his clothes again, the possibility of finding something else that did not belong to him too much for him to handle. 

At the airport Sophia handed him his bag and it was remarkable, once again fitting his entire life into one beat up duffel bag. The routine of baggage check and tickets and X-rays was all too familiar now and Harry and The Troves were robotic as they went through it all, landing hard in their seats on the plane and waiting impatiently to fly back to the United States for the very last leg of their tour. 

It was ending now and it was damn near over. Harry couldn’t think about it now, raising his hand after takeoff to ask for a gin and tonic, and Sophia clicked her tongue but she ordered one for herself, too, clinking her plastic cup with Harry’s and saying,

“Cheers.”

“Cheers to the end,” Harry replied, and the two of them downed their drinks far faster than they should have and ordered two new drinks to replace them as they set their empty cups on the trays before them. 

He was okay. He was okay. And the flight was long but the night was longer and it was midnight in Harry’s bones and seven o’clock in the Tampa sky by the time the plane touched down in Florida. The Troves and the roadies and Sophia disembarked, yawning and stretching and moaning in pain, but Tampa was a welcome change from the freezing snow and cold they had left behind in Europe. The air was balmy and thick as they stepped out into the warm January night. Their familiar old tour bus waited for them outside the airport, having been dropped off by the record label just for them, and Harry climbed onto the bus with the weight of the world pressing him down.

“Home sweet home,” Liam groaned, crashing into one of the chairs at the kitchenette table. Niall joined him and dropped his head onto the table and groaned,

“I am never getting on a plane again.” Sophia told them to quit complaining; they had three long days to recover before their first third leg United States show. They were to play to Tampa first, then Atlanta and then Charlotte, and across the country for the third damn time in a year. How the world was not sick of him yet, Harry had no damn idea. 

But at least the end was near now. Harry was not scared anymore. The end was okay; the end was just the beginning of something else. At least it made Harry feel a little bit better to think that way. Every member of the band danced around their plans for the future, tiptoeing around what exactly was going to happen to them once they went their separate ways. Harry understood the fear they felt at admitting it was nearly over but he wished they would stop excluding him from whispered discussions in the middle of the night. 

They feared he was going to break. And it never went away, the way they looked at him, and he pretended it was not going to faze him because it was the only choice he had. 

The nights flew by in a haze of frustrated tears, Niall winning game after game of War, and shots with Harry’s name all over them. And Harry found himself in a familiar pose, his spine bent as he retched over the toilet in the bathroom of yet another concert hall. Sophia had one hand on his back and one hand in his hair and as he threw up what little vodka and orange juice he had in his stomach she told him,

“Lou called me today.” If it was a gesture intended to comfort him it had the opposite effect. Harry choked on his spit as he leaned over the cold porcelain, stomach turning, and he looked up at her as best he could. 

“Oh yeah?” he asked. 

“Yeah.” She was sympathetic and the look she gave him burned, part pity and part revulsion and a third part tired affection. “Yeah, Haz, he asked me how you’re doing.” 

“Oh yeah?” Harry said again. He spread his arms to show off his fucking kingdom, the toilet and the sink and the locked door. “What’d you tell him?”

“I told him the truth.” 

“Fuck,” Harry replied as a fresh wave of nausea nearly bowled him over. He dry heaved over the toilet, nothing left inside him to come out, and Sophia rubbed his back in a slow circle as she said,

“I told him you’re surviving.” 

“Hardly,” Harry choked. He leaned back and she let him go, her hands falling away from him as he stood to rinse out his mouth in the sink. He didn’t want to ask but he fucking had to know, turning to Sophia to ask her, “And how is he?”

“Do you really want to know?” She always knew how to read him like a goddamn book.

“No,” Harry said. “Tell me anyway.” And Sophia looked hard at him and she relented, honest to a fault. 

“He’s surviving,” she said simply, as if it was simple at all. 

“Good,” Harry replied. He turned away to face the mirror and he messed with what was left of his hair, yearning for the cover it used to give him. 

“Hardly,” Sophia said just to break his fucking heart. And Harry froze and he watched Sophia fret in the mirror, her hands twisting over and over. “He’s broken hearted, Haz,” she said. “Just like you. I know you probably don’t want to hear this but I don’t understand why you’re doing this to yourselves. Do you want to know the truth, Haz? About our conversation?”

“No,” Harry groaned as if there was any way to stop her.

“He cried over you, Haz. He cried to me and he told me he…”

“Stop,” Harry begged. 

“Didn’t know what he was going to do,” Sophia finished anyway. 

“And how do you think I feel?” Harry asked. “Do you think I’m any better off?” He did not mean to snap but once he started it was so damn hard to stop. “Did you tell him that I haven’t stopped fucking crying over him, either? Did you tell him I’m a fucking wreck? Did you tell him I gave away his fucking ring because I couldn’t stand to wear it? Fuck, Soph, did you tell him I cut my hair?”

“No,” Sophia said. “I didn’t tell him any of that.” She looked at him and he looked at her and there was no way in hell any one person was supposed to be able to survive this much heartache. It was possible to drop dead from a broken heart, wasn’t it?

(If it was true it was a miracle Harry had yet to succumb.)

And Harry raked his hands through his hair and he closed his eyes and he said, “What did you tell him? When he said he…he didn’t know what to do?”

Sophia shook her head. “If you want to hear from him, I want you to call him yourself.”

“I can’t,” Harry said, in disbelief she still had trouble understanding exactly why he had to let Louis be. 

“I’ll buy you a new phone tomorrow, okay?” she said as if that was Harry’s problem. “I don’t want you two idiots to pine over each other and waste away. I want you to call him. Please.”

“No.” He couldn’t. He wouldn’t. And he pushed past her out of the bathroom and out towards the stage and she had no choice but to follow him. 

He played the show and he played the crowd and a new boy stood behind him, Zayn’s guitar cradled to his chest, and it was a new boy Harry was never going to look twice at. He sang his fucking heart out and if he was going to miss Louis he was going to do it from the stage where not one person could touch him. And the crowd had yet to catch on and they howled in pain when he dropped his microphone onto the stage with a screech of static and left them without playing his encore. 

He was never going to play Louis’s song again. It was his song and his alone and as long as he was gone the song did not mean a thing. And Harry was not going to waste his time playing a meaningless fucking song. He passed his earpiece to Nick and he gave the new guy a pat on the back, a _welcome to the fucking family_ , and the kid smiled at him and Harry walked away. Harry beat the crowd outside, the audience too stunned by his abrupt departure to move, and he hopped up into the bus, stripped off his sneakers and his jeans and his T-shirt as he walked, and he crawled into the bed that was entirely too big for him. 

For a long time he listened to the fans wait outside the bus, scream when they saw The Troves emerge, and ask Niall and Liam over and over where Harry had gone. 

“He’s just tired,” Niall assured them. “Jet leg.”

“Yeah, he’s a fucking baby when it comes to his sleep,” Liam added with a laugh, and the fans missed him, they fucking missed him, but they accepted Niall’s lies and Liam’s, and for that Harry was glad. And he couldn’t sleep as he listened, tossing and turning, and in his underwear he climbed out of bed and back out into the empty kitchenette. He missed the long leather sofas of the European bus but the chairs were going to have to do, Harry curling up across two of the rickety wooden chairs just so he would not have to sleep alone.

And he was pathetic but at least he damn well knew it. 

One by one the band and the roadies and Sophia filed into the bus and Sophia grumbled as she scooped up the clothes he had left in the aisle. When she caught sight of him lying in the kitchenette she sighed, making her way to him and brushing one hand along his temple.

“You okay, sweetheart?” she asked him, but she knew the fucking answer. 

“No,” he told her. 

“Do you want some company?” And he was pitiful and he looked up at her from where he lay and he told her,

“Yes, I do. Please.” She made him stand, taking his hand, and she pulled him down the hall to his bed. She kicked off her high heeled shoes and she unbuttoned her blazer, crawling into bed in her skirt and tights and pink camisole. 

“Come here,” she told him, and he needed touch more than he needed anything and he gratefully climbed into bed beside her. Somehow she knew, she fucking knew, and she cradled him to her chest as all over again he began to cry. It was fine, he was fine, and she carded her hands through his hair and hushed him as best she could. He was fine, it was all fine, but he cried so hard he fought for each and every goddamn breath he drew in. 

It was fine. He was fine. And maybe that was how all of this was meant to go. 

 

On days without a show, on days when Harry would want to do nothing but sleep and wallow and cry, Sophia dragged him from bed and rode with him to therapy appointments. 

“It’s not ideal,” she kept saying, and he wished she wouldn’t. She meant it was not ideal, the way Harry never got to speak to the same person twice, but Harry told her the whole damn thing was not ideal. But to his surprise and to Sophia’s relief the endless fidgeting with tissues in his fist began to shake the perpetual fear from Harry’s bones. He sat across from nodding professionals, Sophia more often than not sitting at his side, and slowly Harry began to feel something closer to all right.

Far sooner than he expected he realized he could look up at the blue, blue sky and not feel the burning desire to call Louis and weep for him to come back.

“And do you think that’s what you’ll do, then?” a woman somewhere on the east coast asked Harry. “Go to him when this part of your life is over?” And she only offered him the floor again when he asked her,

“Should I?” It was getting harder every day to tell himself, to convince himself and to convince Sophia, that being stubborn and being apart was what was best for Harry. He scratched at the anchor on his skin without meaning to, so often the skin around the ink began to peel, and Sophia swatted his hand long before he ever realized he was doing it again. 

He didn’t accept drinks in the tour bus anymore. Harry saw a doctor, one Sophia took ages to choose, and the doctor took Harry’s blood and took Harry’s temperature and sent him away with a prescription he didn’t really want to fill but one Sophia made him take at night with full glasses of water. He took his anti-depressant hesitantly, the pills hard to get used to in the way they settled hot in his stomach, and he gratefully took hot cups of tea to help him sleep. 

He was grateful when his bandmates eased up on tiptoeing around him. He tried his best to perk up, to smile, to make them believe as much as he did that the pills and the endless cycle of talking about himself to faceless strangers was beginning to help. 

He was even more grateful when his bandmates stopped saying Louis’s name like he was a ghost and Harry’s like he was a dead man walking. 

Harry picked up Sophia’s phone when she was not looking far more often than he would ever admit. He opened it, hovering over the call button, but he was never going to call Louis. It just felt good to pretend. 

“Should I?” Harry asked to doctor after doctor, begging them to tell him what to do. “Should I leave him be, you think, or am I going to be better? Am I going to be good enough for him?” Sophia squeezed his knee every time he asked and every damn time he asked the doctor said the same thing.

“If you believe you are going to be better, you will be.” The Harry from a few months ago would have kicked his chair over and stormed from the room, calling bullshit and pitching a fit. But Harry felt softer, somehow, tired of faking bravado and getting angry. He nodded at all the shit the doctors offered him and he nodded when they asked him,

“Don’t you think you deserve to be happy, Harry?”

He did, didn’t he? He had two months left to figure it out and he was going to figure himself out even if it killed him.


	22. Chapter 22

Just like every time The Troves swung on through, the United States passed by them in a blur. It was South Carolina and Louisiana, Texas and Arizona, Nevada and California. It was all the cities they had missed the past few rolls around and some they had never missed once. It was familiar bathrooms and strange ones, dingy and dirty or pristine and white. It was Harry choking over toilets with nothing coming up and it was a revolving door of hands on his back from Sophia to Niall to Liam and back again. And it was fine. It was all so damn fine Harry couldn’t stand it, states falling by like rain as they powered through a warm southern January. 

And Harry’s birthday came and went without much commotion; Sophia asked him quietly if there was anything he’d like to do to celebrate, anything at all, and she understood when he told her he wasn’t much in the mood to celebrate. She bought him a cake anyway, Harry’s stomach clenching painfully at the thought of the cake she bought for Louis in December, and he dragged her into a hug and thanked her over and over. Zayn called him to sing Happy Birthday loudly in his ear and Harry thanked him, too, and Niall and Liam indulged him in hours of sitting and talking about nothing to distract him. That was a gift he appreciated more than anything. 

When Sophia shook Harry awake later that night to tell him, “Louis says happy birthday,” it only took Harry a beat to think about it and reply,

“Tell him I say thank you,” instead of something cruel like _tell him not to think of me_. 

February was historically cold, the band driving up north through a fresh powder of snow through Washington and Oregon and Idaho. It was even colder in Colorado and colder still in Illinois. Harry was so damn sick of taking off his coat and buttoning it up again, the spare button to his former fiancé’s coat tucked inside his pocket. Niall and Liam caught identical colds in Ohio, shivering through their sets as best they could. And Sophia did what she did best, spoiling them with honey drizzled tea and cough drops and warm blankets on their days off. 

And time never failed to carry on. Harry was not counting but it had been nineteen days since he had set Louis free. And the Harry from nineteen days ago would have been shocked to know that every day the pain seemed to lessen bit by bit. His left hand was far too light and so was his head but every day it got harder to see darkness at the end of the tunnel instead of light. Because maybe it wasn’t over. Not yet. 

After a doctor’s appointment that left Harry dazed from all that he had let fall from his lips Sophia took his hand and squeezed and asked him,

“You’re finally starting to see the good in yourself, aren’t you?”

It was easy to nod and easier to tell her, “Yeah, I guess that’s what this is.”

And when the band would drink together after shows, stripped out of their sweaty clothes and taking shots in their underwear, Niall or Liam would inevitably ask Harry, 

“How are you holding up?” and he always told them the same thing. 

“Not too bad, man, not too bad.” He could survive this way indefinitely, couldn’t he, if he really had to? He felt the way he felt and didn’t the great ones always say that misery made art? Maybe someday far into the future Harry Styles would take the stage and sing long songs about the broken heart he nursed when he was young. Maybe he would be a hero, penning an anthem for survivors of heartache. 

But for the first time in a long time nothing came to him. He supposed it was just as well; if this was really the end what would be the point of writing new songs? They would never see the light of day, anyway. 

In Oklahoma Sophia told him, “Louis called me today,” and Harry told her not to tell him what Louis said. It had been three days since he had let the name cross his mind and the moment Sophia said it he wanted to cry. 

“Let me tell you what he said,” she ordered, and it must have been important if she was looking at him so damn intently. 

“What did he say?” Harry asked. 

“He asked me if you were still wearing your ring,” she said. 

“What did you tell him?”

“The truth.”

Harry deserved the headache right between his eyes. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” she said. “And he said, ‘Me neither.’” And maybe that was fine and maybe Sophia loved twisting the knife and he wanted to beg her not to tell him things that would only make it worse when he felt the warm beginnings of feeling better. But then she took hold of his shoulder and she said, “But I can promise you he was lying. I could just tell.” Harry shrugged away from her because her eyes were far too much and he was mean and he said,

“Stop it.” 

“I’m telling you the truth, you stubborn prick,” she said. “You two are wasting away missing each other and I have to stand here in the middle and watch the both of you pretend you’re not! How do you think that makes me feel?”

“You’re not obligated to do that,” he told her icily, more so than he meant to. And maybe over and over he told doctors with warm faces that he thought he owed it to Louis to stay away. He didn’t deserve Louis, he would only fuck it up again, he would only make Louis cry. And maybe over and over they told him he deserved to be happy and maybe happiness was a boy living alone in Manhattan. But just like addiction, just like the promise of oblivion, the thought of going to Louis with nothing to offer but his bandaged up heart more often than not scared Harry more than the thought of never seeing him again.

And for once Sophia was not taken aback by his anger; she gave it back to him doubled as they squared off in the aisle of the tour bus. 

“Cancel the rest of the tour!” she cried. “Quit the band, change your name, run away! I don’t care! I just can’t take this anymore, watching you get thinner and thinner and hearing Louis cry so hard he can’t speak over the phone! I’m a person, too, Haz, and it takes a toll on me! I’m going crazy here trying to keep you from drowning and I can’t anymore!”

(And he was going to lose her, too, and there was nothing in the world that he could do.)

“Then go!” Harry shouted, so hard it hurt his throat. “Stop protecting me, go home!” 

“I can’t! I promised when I signed on with you idiots that I would never, ever stop! You need me just as much as I need you!”

“You need me like a fucking bullet hole, Sophia!” Harry shouted. “You and the band and everyone would be better off without me! Just…go!” He was going to cry, he was going to cry, and maybe he hadn’t really learned anything about self-worth, but Sophia had her hands balled into fists and she was growing angrier by the moment. 

“I’m not going anywhere!” she replied. “Not ever!” And the tour bus door crashed open and Niall and Liam spilled inside, the two of them crying out identical shouts of,

“What’s going on?” 

“Fuck off!” Sophia shrieked, and in tandem they crashed to a stop. They were shocked and so was Sophia, clapping a hand over her mouth. 

“Are you guys okay?” Niall asked after a long moment he took to recover.

“Fine,” Harry snapped. “Just telling Soph she should go home now before she fucking breaks in two.”

“Harry!” Sophia cried. He was cruel and he damn well knew it and he shrugged, looking at Niall and Liam and waiting for them to make a move. The two of them shared a glance, wide eyed and quiet, and finally Niall turned back to Harry and said,

“Haz, I think you need to relax. Soph isn’t going anywhere, not now that we’re almost done.” And there was nothing Harry could do. Sophia was just as stubborn as he was and so was the rest of the band and their inability to work past it was the reason for all of this. And Harry was going to lose his mind. 

“I’m going out,” Harry said, and not one person tried to stop him as he shoved open the door and slammed it shut behind him. Harry was a tornado and all around him he caused things to spin wildly out of control and there was nothing he could do to settle it down once he had twisted it up. And maybe that was how all of this was meant to go, Harry in essence a boy who could never make up his mind. He woke up with a fire in his belly, telling himself he could do this, he would, and he would do whatever it took to be ready for Louis by the time they hit New York. But by nightfall he would be shaking his head, leaning heavy on the table in the kitchenette as he reminded himself what he had already put Louis through. 

He still had more time. Days. Weeks. He would figure it out. He would. 

 

The first of March came with a rainstorm that nearly swept the tour bus off the road in Kentucky as they swung their way back down south. Nick maneuvered the bus off the road and into a rest stop and Sophia relaxed for the first time all night once they screeched to a stop. The road was too flooded to move on for the moment, water rolling down the highway like a river, and Harry peered out of the bus and into the dark at the pouring rain. 

“I’ve never seen rain like this,” Eleanor marveled, pulling back the curtains where she crouched on a chair at Harry’s side. 

“Well, hopefully it stops in time to make it to our show,” Sophia replied. 

“We’ll make it,” Nick said. He had gotten better and better at driving the bus the longer he did it and his confidence helped ease the tension in Sophia’s shoulders. 

(No one had said Jeff’s name in weeks and Harry was hyper aware of the constant reminder: he drove everyone around him away in the end.)

Nick pulled the bus back out onto the road at four fifteen, Sophia gnawing at her manicured nails, but they made it to the venue just in time for sound check. And Niall told her,

“Nothing can keep The Troves down forever, be it hell or high water!” and Liam thought it was funny, tossing his head back to laugh. Sophia did not and she shook her head and as Nick slapped set lists to the stage with tape (finally crossing off with markers the encore song) Sophia wandered away cursing everyone under the sun. “She’s fine,” Niall said when he caught Harry watching her go. “She’s always fine.”

They always had to be fine. There was no goddamn choice. There were not quite four weeks left to go and not quite four weeks left before the end of all damn things. And Harry was not scared; he didn’t have room for fear in his crowded body. He was full of sorrow and anxiety, Effexor and nicotine and the burning afterglow of love, and he was fine because he had no other option. The show must go on. And it was all okay. 

Miami and Orlando and Raleigh and Nashville flew by in a dizzy haze. And there were warm days few and far between, the chill of winter finally melting away, and Harry had not seen a sign of slushy snow since February. And maybe with the first sign of spring Harry began to feel the fresh twinges of hope, a weakly lit flame inside him that maybe this was going to work out in the end. 

In Philadelphia he caught himself smiling more often than not. In Washington, D.C. he found himself laughing harder than he ever had before, his eyes closed as he threw his head back to the ceiling of the bus at something stupid Liam had said. And maybe he had been sick, sick, sick for so long that he had no idea what healing felt like, but it sure as hell felt like maybe it was exactly what he was doing. In Baltimore he dry heaved in the bathroom and in Trenton he coughed up a blood clot into a tissue that made Sophia go white, but what was a little blood in the grand scheme of things? Harry grinned at her over the bloody tissue and she snatched it from him, tossing it into the garbage and dry heaving herself. 

“You’re a menace, Harry Styles,” she said, and he had heard it a thousand times before. And every day the bus aimed closer and closer to New York and Harry got closer and closer to shaking apart from the inside out. After New Jersey came Connecticut and after that two nights in Boston. In Boston Harry sat curled up in the bus, watching the crowd outside the venue through the tinted window. He could watch them as long as he wanted and they would never know he was there; the freedom of being able to watch them snap pictures of the building where the neon signed flashed (TONIGHT: THE TROVES: SOLD OUT) was luxurious to Harry. He liked to watch them still, the rest of the band uninterested, but Harry wondered how different the crowd would be if they knew they were two weeks from the end. 

“Whatcha doing?” Eleanor asked, dropping into the chair at Harry’s side and peering out the window with him. 

“I’m wondering how we’re going to survive without them,” he said. There was no point in lying and he told her the truth, watching the fans laugh and smile and playfully shove each other in line. 

“Ah,” she said. And she was honest, too, and she added, “How about how are they going to survive without us?” It was a good point but not one that made Harry feel any more at ease. He looked away from the crowd to look at Eleanor and she smiled, wan and timid. “Sorry,” she said. “I’m sorry, I didn’t…”

Whatever she was going to say didn’t matter. She was right; they were only kids, the people out there, and Harry owed them his life. He owed them all he was and all he would ever have and all he was going to do was leave them. (What kind of role model was he?) 

“I’m sorry,” Eleanor said even as Harry waved her apology away. “They’ll be fine. They’ll find someone else to worship.” 

And Harry shocked himself by quirking an eyebrow and telling her, “But they’ll be nowhere near as gorgeous as me.” 

“No way in hell,” Eleanor agreed, and she only tried half-heartedly to squirm, laughing, from his arms when he threw them tight around her. 

“Thank you,” he said for no reason except for the company she provided, and she gave up pulling away and hugged him back, tight enough to crack his back. 

“No problem,” she replied. “But let me go before I die.” And he did but she played dead anyway, lolling her head back so she cracked it on the window, the crowd outside turning around as one to try and see who was inside the bus. Harry laughed, he really laughed, and he checked Eleanor ’s head for a sign of a bump while she laughed so hard she cried and Nick appeared from nowhere to hand her a paper towel full of ice from the kitchenette. 

And maybe this was getting better, little moments all around Harry reminding him bit by bit how it felt to be very much alive. 

 

Boston was the best show yet since Harry had been sleeping alone in his too big bed. The boy behind him onstage (George, his name was George) learned the songs better every night and he learned the rhythm that was The Troves piece by piece. And Harry was tired to the point of losing the feeling in his bones and he had the feeling it was always going to be that way. But he peered out at the crowd as they slipped from the venue out into the chilly night and there were not many shows to go. 

(Harry could count them on both hands, but who was fucking counting?)

He owed them whether he liked it or not and as Sophia caught him staring at the audience and she asked him what was wrong he told her, 

“Nothing. I just think it’s about time I give them their goodbyes.” She gave him a smile, squeezing his arm, and she told him it was a nice thought. 

“You don’t think I should?” he asked, and she was so sympathetic it made Harry feel sick. 

“You know what they’re going to ask you about,” she said, and Louis’s name was on the tip of her tongue and Harry would do anything to keep it from slipping out. 

“Right,” he said. “You’re right.” But they had given him so much; they had given him his life. What kind of man was he to run from them after all they had gone through together? “But I have to,” he finished, and Sophia squeezed his arm once again and told him he was a menace. 

“Don’t I fucking know it,” he said, and without waiting for her to reply he pulled away from her arm and headed with his hands in his pockets backstage. George grinned at him as he tugged Zayn’s guitar from his shoulders (he was somewhere in between Zayn’s height and Louis’s, Nick having to once again adjust the damn strap to fit another body) and Harry asked him, “Want to talk to some fans with me?” and the kid’s face lit up. 

“Yes!” he said. “Of course!” And he was tangled in the guitar strap, all long limbs and nervous laughter, and Harry dove between his arms to get him to stop making it worse. 

“Let me,” Harry said, and he unraveled the net George had trapped himself in. 

“Thanks, man,” the kid said, blushing as Harry dropped Zayn’s guitar onto its’ hook on the rolling guitar stand. 

“No problem. Let’s go.” Harry cocked his head and the kid followed, so much brighter than anyone else in this band, and Harry felt a bizarre conglomeration of pity, jealousy, and warmth at the sight of a happy-go-lucky kid at the beginning of his life. And maybe Harry could be that, too, but not in this life, not in this moment. Harry led George towards the front door and together they burst through it, jaws dropping as the fans realized who had come out of hiding to speak to them. 

“Harry!” they cried, jubilant. “Harry, here, here!” And hands reached for him but that was all right, signing his name over and over was a better distraction than he expected. George hovered at his elbow, grinning from ear to ear, and he looked like he could die of happiness when the fans begin to ask him for pictures. 

“Me?” he asked, and he received nods and laughter in reply. 

“Yes, you!” a young girl said, and George was shocked into stillness until Harry shoved him and said,

“Sorry, girls, he’s a little shy!” Harry didn’t know this kid at all and both of them knew it but George did not seem to mind the closeness Harry feigned. If anything it seemed to make him more gleeful as he slipped his arms around two girls who asked a third to take their picture. 

“Let me take it,” Harry offered to the third girl, “so you can be in it, too.” And she passed off her phone and Harry’s fingers were numb from the cold and the girl shrieked when he pretended to drop her phone, fumbling it and cradling it back into his palms. He took their picture, George with a jubilant smile on his face, and maybe this time Harry was all right. When he handed the phone back to the girls they begged for a picture with him and he told them, 

“Come on now, I’ll look like hell next to you!” and they loved it; they fucking loved it. They fawned over him and one of them kept a hand on him the whole time he spoke to them. And he was okay. Maybe the attention was always going to be too much for him but he could put on a hell of a show. He said goodbye to the girls and George spoke, so awed he could hardly keep his jaw up.

“They love you,” he said, and Harry nodded.

“I know.”

“What’s it like?” And he was wide eyed and happy, so bright it hurt to look at, and Harry looked hard into his round face and told him the biggest lie he had ever told.

“Amazing,” he said. He could have told the truth; he could have told George it came with contracts and puking in bathrooms and smarmy records label heads and sweating onstage. He could have told him it came with heartache and pain and needles and vodka and hangovers and waking up on hotel floors. But he didn’t. He didn’t. He made the right choice, the boy grinning wide enough to split his face, and Harry clapped him on the back and added, “And you’ll feel it for yourself soon enough.” The kid tripped over himself to spit compliments, saying something like,

“Coming from you…I don’t even know what to say, man, thank you!” But Harry stopped listening as quickly as his walking through the crowd grinded to a halt. There was a familiar face in the crowd and without permission from his brain his hands balled into fists as George bumped into his back and said, “What’s wrong?” 

“Michael,” Harry groaned, and he spun around on his heels and stood on his toes to look for someone, anyone, to stand at his side and help him handle the abrupt reappearance of Michael Clifford and the rest of Pilot’s Poison into his life. His bandmates flanked him as he surveyed the crowd with his arms crossed. He looked just the same as he had the last time Harry saw him, smug and egotistical as he looked down his nose at the fans surrounding the tour bus. 

“Oh, shit,” George said, voice low at Harry’s side. He was going to have to do; not one of The Troves had yet to emerge from the venue to rescue Harry. Sophia was nowhere to be found and Harry gave up looking and George said, “Are you okay?”

“Fine,” Harry snapped, though he knew he must have turned green at the sight of Michael. 

“Want me to get rid of him?” George asked as if he could do anything. 

“No, don’t bother.” Harry could do it. “Come with me.” George was stupid and young and loyal to a fault and he followed Harry as he made up his mind long after his legs decided to meet Michael where he stood. 

“Harry, wait!” George tripped over himself to follow Harry and with his fists shoved deep into his pockets Harry headed straight for Pilot’s Poison and Michael Clifford’s stupid smug face. 

“What are you doing here?” he snapped the moment Michael acknowledged his existence. He sounded childish the way he said it and he did not care one bit. Michael Clifford was not worth his anger and anyone (Louis) could have told him that and he never would have listened. 

“We were in town for a show of our own,” Michael replied. He looked ridiculous, his three bandmates acting like Harry was not worth their gaze. “We heard you were here and we just wanted to say hello.”

“Well, hello,” Harry said. “Now fuck off.” He tried to turn away, he really did, but Michael said something that made his blood boil in his fucking veins. 

“What’s with the temper, Haz?” Michael called. “Are you a little angry because somebody wised up and left you?” 

(This kid was far from the boy who had idolized Harry, staring at him with wonder the first time they met.)

Harry whirled around, his coat billowing around him as he faced Michael and the rising wind, and it was his turn to look down at Michael. 

“What did you say?” he asked, sick pleasure rising in his chest as for just a moment Michael shrank back. 

“Where’s your, uh, your _fiancé_?” Michael asked. “Did he realize you’re not as great as you seem?” He sneered, so fucking sure of himself it made Harry dizzy, and George was at his elbow but he only had eyes for Michael. 

“Fuck off,” Harry snapped. It wasn’t worth it; Michael would never be worth it, but his face widened into a grin as he realized he was getting under Harry’s skin. He was an idiot and he was never going to learn that fighting and making enemies was not the way to get through the shit storm that was this life. And Harry owed it to him to make sure he damn well knew. 

“I want to say hi to the rest of your band first!” Michael replied, whining in protest to Harry’s suggestion. “Oh,” he said, “but Zayn left you, too. Didn’t he? And left you with whoever this kid is?” And he sneered at George and the kid blushed, ducking his head to get away from Michael’s scrutinizing eyes. 

“He’s a billion times better than you, Michael,” Harry replied. He took a protective step in front of George as Michael’s sneer turned to a frown and George squeezed Harry’s arm from behind. Harry did not look at him; he sized up Michael and began to think maybe this time he was worth it. 

“Why do people keep leaving you, Haz?” Michael asked. “Do you think they see through all your bullshit just like we did? How did it feel when your fucking lapdog left you?” 

George tugged on Harry’s sleeve and from far away he heard Sophia’s high heels nearing him but it was over the moment Harry laid eyes on Pilot’s Poison. So fast Michael never saw it coming Harry threw himself at him, shoving Michael to the ground by his chest and landing in a heap on top of him on the cold sidewalk. 

“Fuck!” Michael cried, Harry in disbelief this kid never learned to keep his goddamn mouth shut. Luke was in Harry’s face and George was at Harry’s back but the only thing that mattered was Michael squirming and fighting for control beneath him.

“Do you feel cool saying all this shit?” Harry asked with as much calm as he could muster. He pinned Michael to the ground by his shoulders and nothing could have moved Harry as he stared him down. Michael was a fucking coward at heart and he whined, making pitiful noises like a kitten as Harry looked down at him. “Does it make you feel better about yourself to pretend you’re so fucking cool?” He was not worth it and Harry knew it and Harry was going to make sure Michael knew it too if it was the last thing he did. 

“You know nothing about me, you know nothing about Louis, and you know even less about living the life you wedged yourself in. Good luck making it, kid, you’re going to drown in your own ego and choke to death before twenty-five. Trust me. I know.” 

He was not going to do what he wanted to most which was grind Michael Clifford into a bloody pulp on the pavement. He was not going to hit him and he was not going to hurt him and as Sophia’s hand landed light in his hair she told him what he already knew,

“Haz, hey, he’s not worth it.” And Michael was beaming, confident again as he realized Harry was not going to hurt him, and he did not hesitate to talk like he was not a gutless fucking wonder.

“Yeah,” Michael spat as Sophia and George gently pried Harry’s hands from Michael’s shoulders. “Hitting me won’t bring your boyfriend back.” From behind him Harry heard Sophia gasp and her horror was all the permission he needed. Sophia’s hands going slack, Harry took the opportunity to take hold of Michael by the collar of his jacket and shake him like a fucking rag doll. 

“Hey!” Luke cried, but his hands were not enough to pry Harry off. He shook Michael so hard his head hit the pavement with a thunk, Michael’s eyes crossing, and Harry said,

“If I ever see you again I’m going to fucking ruin you.” He had no idea what he meant; there was nothing he could ever do and maybe everyone around him knew it just as well as Harry did. But he let go of Michael and he cried out in pain as once again his skull bounced off the pavement. The waiting fans had gone dead silent but it didn’t matter; so had Michael Clifford. 

“Fuck off, you fucking waste of space,” Harry said, and he shook Sophia’s hands off him and without another word he walked away. 

“Fuck you!” Michael cried from behind him. But Sophia had a death grip on his elbow and George had one hand on his back and together they guided him towards the bus. 

“Harry, are you okay?” a fan asked, one hand reaching for Harry, and he paused despite Sophia’s protests to reply.

“Fine,” he said. “And you?”

“Fine,” the girl stammered in reply. “Was that Michael Clifford?”

“Yeah,” Harry said. “Heard of him?”

“Yeah,” the girl said. 

“He’s an asshole,” Harry told her. 

“I heard what he said,” she replied. Sophia tugged his arm but again he shook her off and Harry focused on the girl with the shaky voice. 

“Yeah?” Harry asked. “And whose side are you on?”

“He’s an asshole,” she said after a moment’s pause, and Harry threw his head back to the starry sky to laugh. 

“That’s my girl,” he said, and finally he obeyed Sophia’s guiding hands and he let her pull him up into the bus.

“Are you crazy?” Sophia asked, and Harry wanted to tell her they both knew he just might be. But he didn’t. He sat down hard in the kitchenette as Sophia banged around the kitchen to make him a cup of tea with honey. The rest of the band had snuck into the bus at some point during the fight and Harry looked around at them, not caring one bit what they thought as Sophia nearly smashed his mug on the counter in anger. 

“I’m so sorry,” Niall said, the first to speak, and Harry looked up at him and tried to offer him a grateful smile. “He was so far out of line I wanted to hit him myself. I was going to; I was on my way. I promise. But Soph shoved us into the bus when she saw you jumping him.” He paused and Harry bit at his lip, his knees aching from their collision on the concrete, and Niall went on. “Anyway, I’m sorry. If what he said got to you and even if it didn’t.”

But Niall wasn’t stupid and Niall knew him well enough to know that Harry let things get under his skin no matter how many times he told himself it didn’t fucking matter.

“I’m fine,” Harry lied for the millionth time in his life. Now that the adrenaline of shoving Michael to the ground was wearing off he began to feel the rest of the emotions spinning fast inside him, sorrow in the goddamn lead. And Sophia slammed a mug of tea before Harry so hard she cracked the damn thing. It was not a large enough crack to spill the insides out and Harry watched the crack deepen for just a moment before slowing to a stop.

“Sorry,” Sophia snapped, and she threw herself into the empty wooden chair at Harry’s side. “I’m sorry, I’m just so mad I can’t see straight.” For the first time since letting her haul his ass onto the bus it occurred to Harry that she might not be angry with him. 

“Are you all right?” he asked her as he picked up his mug and took a careful sip. 

“No,” she snapped. “No, I’m far from it.” She was quiet for a moment, crossing and uncrossing her legs, but the moment was short lived. She exploded and The Troves had no choice but to wait for the storm that was Sophia to end. 

“Who the hell does he think he is?” she wailed. “He’s just so jealous he can’t handle himself! Diamante Records is furious with me and I’m sure that’s why Michael is still bullying you!”

“Wait, why are they…?” Niall tried, but Sophia answered his question before he finished asking it. 

“I managed to get the word out right before they were signed how goddamn shitty every last one of them is!” she cried. “I got their name out there as the band no venue should let play! And Diamante Records is great at damage control but they were too late. Harry, you ruined them without lifting a finger! They ruined themselves by picking a fight with someone like you. You have so many people who love you and would fight to the death for you, me included, and Diamante Records will never have that. They’re not getting the fame and the money they were expecting from Pilot’s Poison and every goddamn time I hear about another flop from them I swear to God I get such a goddamn thrill I can’t even tell you how good it feels.” 

Her chest heaved as she shouted, waving her hands around, and Harry and the rest of the band and the roadies stared at her open mouthed and hardly breathing. She was incredible, a force to be reckoned with, and for the millionth time in his life Harry felt an overpowering wave of gratitude that she was always in his corner. Liam was the first to speak, opening his mouth and offering Sophia a low whistle.

“Jesus, Soph,” he said. “You’re fucking amazing.” She waved him away as he tried to compliment her, still too angry to focus on anything but Michael Clifford, but she blushed as she managed to calm herself down. 

“You are,” Harry added.

“Incredible,” Eleanor said.

And Sophia told them all to be quiet but not one person obeyed, Eleanor standing to get Sophia a shot glass and fill it with vodka from the cabinets. She smacked it onto the counter before Sophia and for a moment she refused. But the longer she looked at the shot on the table the more tempted she seemed by it and with a cheer from The Troves she picked it up and downed it. She grimaced and slapped the glass upside down onto the table and said,

“To anyone who tries to hold us down.”

Harry cheered, the pain in his throat aching rather than pounding, and it didn’t matter that Michael had made Louis’s name pass his mind and his lips for the first time in weeks. It didn’t matter that the fans saw the fight or that they heard every word; they were still firmly on his side. It didn’t matter that Louis was gone and it sure as hell didn’t matter that there were less than a dozen shows to go before the end. 

He was okay. He was on the damn path to okay, anyway, and what the hell did it matter that he tripped and skinned his hands and knees a few times along the way?

He was okay. He was okay.

 

After Boston, The Troves made their way north, playing three nights in Buffalo. Sophia was shaken up by Harry’s encounter with Michael Clifford and it took her a couple days to wind down. He didn’t blame her; he felt fury hot enough to burn him every time he let Michael’s smarmy face cross his mind. But nothing could stop The Troves, not now. After their third show in Buffalo the four of them signed autographs and took pictures outside with the fans, Harry marveling at the chill in the air that was closer to warm than to cold. 

Every winter had to end, he supposed, and somehow this one was no different.

“We’re following you guys to the next show!” a young couple told Harry, arms slung around each other as they grinned from ear to ear.

“Great!” Harry said. He was getting better and better at feeling joy rather than feigning, eying the way the boy held his girlfriend to his side, rubbing his hand along her hip. “I’ll keep an eye out for you!” he added, and their smiles widened exponentially. They were so easy to please, so eager to please him, and it made him uneasy the more he paid attention to it. They were hungry for him and he was going to let them down and there was nothing in the world he could do to make it go down any easier.

Sophia hopped up inside the bus and called Harry and George up (he no longer minded the way George hung by his elbow; the kid was a sweet guy and good enough company) and they said their farewells to the crowd.

“See you in a few days!” Harry winked to the teenage couple, and he climbed up into the bus and closed the door behind him. It was just a little too warm in the bus and Harry kicked off his shoes, earning a scolding from Sophia as she picked them up and tucked them away where they couldn’t trip anyone in the aisle. 

“Sorry!” Harry offered, but Sophia was her usual feisty self and she did nothing but roll her eyes. Niall and Liam invited George to play cards with them and he happily obliged. He plunked down with them at the table in the kitchenette and Harry sprawled into the last chair, Nick and Eleanor nowhere to be seen. He was about to ask Sophia where they were when she made a soft choking noise from behind him. 

“What is it?” he asked before he had time to whirl around and face her. When he did she had one hand over her mouth and her eyes on her phone and after a moment Harry figured out why. All at once each phone in the bus vibrated with a new text message, and Niall and Liam pulled out their phones and opened it up, both of them adopting the same exact look as Sophia. 

“What?” Harry asked again. 

“It’s Zayn!” Niall crowed, turning his screen around to show Harry the text he missed. “He’s having a daughter!” 

“Oh, wow,” Harry breathed as Sophia sniffed heartily in the aisle behind him.

“What’s wrong, Soph?” Liam asked, his face breaking into an ecstatic grin.

“I’m just…” she said, strangled as if she was trying not to cry. “So proud of him,” she finished, and Liam rose out of his chair to comfort her as she lost her fight with her tears. 

“Yeah,” Liam said as he wrapped his arms around her. “He’s a big boy now.”

“He’s gonna be a _dad_ ,” she breathed in disbelief. Harry felt like laughing as he watched her cry in Liam’s strong arms, the two of them shaking with her tears. “I remember when he was a high school kid with three dollars in his bank account and a skateboard under his arm and…and…” She couldn’t finish but Harry got the message; she had watched The Troves grow up before her eyes and far before she was ready she was going to have to let them go.

(Harry knew the feeling well.)

“Aww, Soph, you still have your baby birds who need you right here,” Liam teased, and that was it. Harry laughed, cracking his neck from barking it to the ceiling, and Liam hushed him over Sophia’s head but his own laughter was written all over his face. “You don’t have to cry!” he told her.

“I know,” she sniffed. She tried to get a hold of herself and Harry wished he didn’t have to see her cry so much, her heart heavy from everything The Troves put her through, but he had a feeling these tears were not entirely tears of sorrow. She was going to miss them; there was no saving her from that. But she was happy, too, blissful that one by one they were going to be free from this life, and Harry had no goddamn idea how he knew her so well but he could see all of it in the lines on her face. He resisted the urge to go to her and take over for Liam in comforting her. She didn’t need Harry. 

And it was all right. It was all good. Zayn Malik was going to have a daughter and even without him at Harry’s side to beam just like Harry knew he would, they owed him a celebration. 

“Where’s the champagne?” Harry asked, and without needing to be told twice Niall got up and pulled a bottle from above the sink.

“Right now?” Sophia asked, and Niall told her,

“Hell yes, right now! Our boy’s gonna be a daddy!” He popped the bottle open and one by one he filled glasses, George passing them out, and they stood in the too small kitchen and they clinked glasses together, cheering for the future daughter of one of their own.

“To Zayn!” Niall crowed, and together they drank and together they dropped their glasses onto the counter and together they cheered.

And maybe for just this moment it was all going to be okay.

 

In the tour bus with three shows left to go before the bitter end, Harry sipped tea and watched Sophia make a mug of her own. She bustled around the kitchen in her high heels and a baby blue skirt and Harry hated the color and tried his best not to look. Sophia had her back to him as she filled her mug with water and she hummed to herself a song Harry didn’t know. The rest of the band and the roadies had gone out for the night to go drinking in some bar but the more time passed him by the tighter the vise around Harry’s heart squeezed, scaring him out of his mind, and he told them he was going to stay behind. Sophia was good and she offered to keep him some company that he gladly accepted. 

More and more he began to fear the day he was going to have to let her go. Her phone went off where she had left it on the table before Harry and he reached for it at the same time she told him he better not even _think_ about reading her text messages. He opened the text, a message from some higher up at Red Hand Records, and Sophia asked him who it was as he skimmed the simple message:

_You better take a look at this._

“Who is it?” Sophia asked again, taking her mug to the table and sitting opposite Harry. But he ignored her, opening up the article the person had attached to the text, and Sophia grew impatient but Harry ignored her still. It was an online article by the same shitty magazine Michael Clifford had interviewed with and Harry had his thumb on the screen to scroll through it before Sophia had time to protest. 

“In a recent interview with Pilot’s Poison’s Michael Clifford,” the article read, “we discussed the growing discord in the band The Troves, whose front man has more troubles than he could count. In a new turn of events, Michael Clifford has come forward with even more shocking updates on the drama unfolding within the troubled band. ‘He’s had his heart broken,’ Michael Clifford told us in our exclusive interview, ‘and I can’t really say I blame him. But I just can’t sit by and let his fans and his bandmates stand by him when he’s gone back to all the drugs that used to comfort him in the aftermath of his relationship. I just think it’s important that the public and his band know who they’re dealing with here, and that’s why I came to you to put this out there. Harry Styles needs help and I’m trying to help as best I can. He’s going to kill himself if he doesn’t get help for his drug addiction, and I can’t stand by and watch it happen!’”

“No,” Harry breathed, dropping the phone onto the table, and Sophia scooped it into her own hand the moment he put it down. He watched her read, her face going white, and how this shitty fucking magazine kept putting out this bullshit was far beyond Harry. It didn’t matter, it shouldn’t fucking matter, but Michael Clifford was hell bent on destroying Harry and this magazine was hell bent on helping him. Diamante Records was a far more powerful entity than Harry had thought and the paler Sophia got the more it seemed that she had begun to realize the same damn thing. 

“That fucking piece of shit!” Sophia shouted the moment she finished reading Michael’s quote. “Where the hell does he get off saying shit like this about you? Who the hell does he think he is?” She stood, knocking over her mug of tea, and Harry leapt up as the hot tea went spilling across the table and into his lap. “Sorry, fuck!” Sophia threw a roll of paper towels at his head and it bounced off him and hit the table, soaking up the hot green tea, and Sophia whirled away from him with her head in her hands. 

“How can they publish shit like this? They know it’s not real! Where do they get off?!” 

“I dunno,” Harry said as he mopped tea from his jeans. It stung, burning his thighs, but it was the least of his worries as Sophia leaned heavy on the counter with her fists to her eyes. 

“No one will believe it,” she moaned, “Not the people who matter. Why the hell do we care, anyway? We’re over. We’re done. I just wish we weren’t…only so they won’t get the satisfaction of thinking it was them that broke us.” 

Harry wanted to go to her, he wanted to hold her, but she was wild as she raved, throwing her hands up and shouting. 

“Asshole!” she screamed. “He’s such an unbelievable son of a bitch! Harry, I am never going to forgive myself for bringing him to you.”

Harry wanted to tell her it wasn’t her fault for the hundredth time but all at once her phone rang on the counter and she froze. 

“Who is it?” Harry asked. She snatched it up and somehow she grew even paler as it vibrated in her hand. “Soph?” Harry asked. But she turned away from him and she pressed the phone to her ear and with a tremor in her voice she said,

“Hello?” For a long moment she was silent, for so long Harry wanted to reach for her and make her face him. But he didn’t. The next thing she breathed froze Harry’s heart in his chest as fast as the phone call had made it race. “Oh, Lou,” she said. “Louis, no, hey…” And again she paused to listen as the world came crashing down all around Harry. And maybe he strained to hear Louis’s voice on the other line and maybe it was the last thing he wanted to hear but whatever the case, he was rooted to the spot as he listened to Sophia’s strangled half of the conversation.

“Louis, slow down,” Sophia said. “Lou, you know him. No, no, it’s not true, he’s…” She paused and all at once the reason for the call hit Harry like a train. He had seen the article and he had panicked, the thought of Harry going back to the drugs that had nearly killed him too much to bear, and he had called Sophia to beg her for the truth. “No, Lou, he’s right here, he’s fine, I promise you.” For a moment her eyes flicked to Harry and the last thing he wanted was for her to offer him the phone, but there it was and she held her hand out, the phone clenched tight in her hand as she looked at Harry with anguished eyes.

“Talk to him,” she shouted in a whisper, eyes impossibly wide. “Talk to him, Haz, he’s having a panic attack over the phone, please.”

He shook his head and he took a step back and Sophia lifted the phone to her ear, breathing as hard as if she had been running for her life. 

“Lou, hey, you have to calm down. Trust me, I promise. You know Michael is full of shit, Lou, is this really what you’re freaking out about?” And she listened and through the phone Harry heard the sound of crying. 

(He could end it; he could pick up the phone and let Louis hear his voice.)

He was cruel and he was selfish and speaking to Louis might break him, might bring crashing down the wall he had built up in therapy and with pills. He shook his head as Sophia took a step closer to him, trapping him against the table, and it was all he could do to keep from bursting into anguished tears himself. This was too much, Louis was always too much, and Harry had ruined him and there was no way he could fix it from so far away. 

“Louis, honey, you need to breathe,” Sophia told him as gently as she could, one hand on her phone and the other in her mouth as she tried herself to stay perfectly intact and perfectly calm. She had pity in her face and she glanced wildly at Harry but he had to go. He had to run. He tried, he really did, but Sophia grabbed him by his shirt and yanked him back to her. 

“Louis, hey, I know,” she cooed, and she was good at what she did. She was good at comfort and she was good at getting through to people but Louis cried on the other line and Harry knew all he fucking wanted to hear was Harry’s voice. He could end it; he could make Louis feel better. He wanted to, he wanted to, but the longer he waited the more impossible it seemed until finally he yanked at Sophia’s sleeve and told her,

“Give it to me.” And she did, her fingers fumbling for Harry’s, and the sound of Louis taking in sharp and painful breaths was all he could focus on as he drew the phone to his ear. Harry winced, Louis’s voice rushing in to fill the empty holes in his chest, and this was the last goddamn thing he wanted. But he owed Louis so much and he opened his mouth as Sophia backed away and he said, “Lou.” 

It was a small and simple thing but just like that Louis choked and fell silent. 

“Lou,” Harry breathed, the name so painful he couldn’t think straight. “Louis, hi. I’m here. I’m here, all right? And I’m fine. What are you crying for?”

For a long, painful moment Louis did not say a word. But then he did and his voice was all that mattered and nothing else would fit in Harry’s scrambled brain. 

“Harry,” Louis said, his voice strangled and low. 

“I’m here,” Harry told him. He was dimly aware of Sophia crying at his side but it didn’t matter; nothing did. Louis had said his name and Louis was right there, his voice filling Harry’s head for the first time in so long Harry had begun to forget the sound of his fucking voice without meaning to.

(If that was not moving on, nothing was.)

“Harry, fuck,” Louis breathed, and he was fine, he was fine, and the crying had slowed to a murmur rather than a sob with ragged edges. 

“I’m fine, baby,” Harry said. “I’m fine. You have to be fine, too.” 

“Harry,” Louis said again, frantic like he knew how close Harry was to hanging up, to smashing the phone and with it losing Louis’s number. But Harry owed Louis the world, he knew that, and instead of breaking he held the phone tighter to his ear like a goddamn lifeline. 

“You don’t really believe that I’d…” Harry asked. He couldn’t make himself say it but Louis knew what he meant.

“No,” Louis breathed. Despite Harry’s best efforts he collapsed into a chair in the kitchenette. Louis’s voice was too much and Harry had not remembered in weeks how desperately he missed him. 

“Good,” Harry said. “Because I wouldn’t.”

“I just thought…” Louis murmured, and Harry could picture him now, curled up by himself, his face in one hand as he tried not to cry. 

“I’m okay, baby,” Harry soothed. It came naturally and he wished it didn’t, calling Louis _baby_ like no time had passed at all. 

Louis surprised him like he always did and he breathed, “Me too.” And it was too much all at once, the thought of being good enough and the fear of losing him all over again, and Harry didn’t mean to but he hung up. He dropped the phone onto the table and Sophia gasped as it clattered when it landed. Harry had forgotten she was there. For a long moment that stretched and pulled neither one of them said a word. Sophia scooped up her phone and she buried her hand in Harry’s curls and she tugged.

“Why can’t you let yourself be happy, Haz?” Sophia asked, voice low. “There’s three shows to go, you idiot, and Louis is waiting for you.” 

Harry was used to being maudlin, to tearing himself down from the inside out in therapy and in the stupid bus, but he grew somber the longer Sophia stared listlessly at him. “What if I don’t want to go to him, Soph?” he asked. “And so what if I do? I don’t know anymore, I’ve never known, and so fucking what if I can’t bring myself to go to him?”

“He’ll come to you,” Sophia said, and maybe that was true. “You know he will. What are you going to do then? Turn him away?”

“If that’s what I have to do.” He said it like a question without meaning to, Louis’s voice still buzzing in his ear as he sat with Sophia carding a gentle hand through the hair that had already begun to grow out again.

“It’s not. Let him love you, Haz, and let yourself love him, please. That’s what you want, isn’t it?” She was frustrated, her eyes wet, but she was not crying anymore. 

“No,” he said. He paused. There was no point in lying to her now. “Yes. More than anything.”

Maybe Louis was long gone and his departure and his heartache was Harry’s doing. And Louis was alone and Louis was crying and how long was it going to go on? How long would it take Louis to move on? He couldn’t miss Harry forever; there was no way he could want Harry the rest of his goddamn life. Eventually he could be okay and eventually he could move on and love someone else and wasn’t it all just so fucking fine?

Maybe it didn’t have to be that way but Harry was never one to feel something for sure and he couldn’t figure out how to feel it now. 

“I’ve never seen someone so in love until I saw you two,” Sophia burst out into the silence. “And if you’re going to throw that away there’s nothing else I can say.” She spun away and Harry didn’t care; he let her go. And he sat alone in the kitchenette until the rest of the band returned and they saw Sophia alone in the front of the bus with tiredness in her face and not one of them said a word about it. They were drunk, reeling from their night out, and still they took vodka down from the cabinets above the sink and they sat scattered in the bus and drank the rest of the night away.

Harry joined them, drinking orange juice as they downed screwdrivers, but no amount of laughter and noise could have made him forget the sound of Louis sobbing through Sophia’s phone.

It took Harry all night to think, to daydream, to worry his lip between his teeth until it stung. He shook Sophia awake just before dawn and there was no room but he crawled into her bunk with her anyway, easing his head to her chest and letting her pet the back of his neck with tired fingers. 

“What do you need?” she asked, her voice muffled by sleep, and Harry felt her beam into his hair when he built up the courage to reply.

“After,” Harry said, taking a deep breath to keep terror from his voice. “After New York. I’m going to go to him.” Sophia kissed the top of his head and her voice was slow and warm as she mumbled,

“That’s my Harry.”


	23. Chapter 23

Harry was never going to be ready for New York City. But Madison Square Garden was the last stop and The Troves had a final show to play. The bus creaked beneath them as they rode in silence towards their final destination and Harry nursed a pulpy glass of orange juice Niall poured him to get rid of the last of the jug. The Troves gave him a wide berth, each of them crowding towards the front of the bus instead of sitting with him in the middle, knowing he needed time, he needed to think. He appreciated their efforts but he yearned for someone to talk to and he was almost glad enough to cry when George sat at his side.

“Hey, Haz,” George said. “How are you?” Instead of replying with the obvious (nervous, terrified, tired, spent) Harry shrugged, chewing at his lip to keep from having to talk for as long as possible. “That good?”

“That good,” Harry replied.

“So this is the end,” George said after a beat he spent looking at Harry like he was the sun. 

“It is,” Harry agreed.

“Thanks,” George said abruptly, like he just couldn’t want to get it out. “You know. For everything. For this.”

“For what?”

“For giving me my first shot at playing in a band,” he said. “Now I know it’s what I want to do forever.” Harry couldn’t help but give him a sharp glance as he replied.

“Even after all the time you’ve spent with me?”

“Even so,” George said. “You know why?”

He didn’t want to know but he nodded anyway, finishing his juice in one long gulp. 

“You never give up,” he said. “And that makes me sure that this life is something worth fighting for.” He smiled at Harry but he couldn’t smile back, uneasy at the way he made it all sound so goddamn simple. 

“Sometimes it is,” Harry replied. “But like you said, this is the end. Sometimes you have to know when to fold.”

For that George had no reply. But he leaned back in his chair and he looked at Harry and he said, “The world is going to miss you, Harry. I just hope you know that.”

“Believe me,” Harry said. “I know.” He knew it all too well and there was no way in hell he was going to be able to give New York City the goodbye they deserved. He knew himself well enough to know he was going to run from the stage like his life depended on it the moment the very last song drew to a close. He was going to run and he was not going to look back and far, far before he was ready it was all going to be over. 

As the bus rumbled on a headache bloomed between Harry’s eyes and he rubbed at his forehead as if it would make the pain go away. But with every bump and every turn it grew worse, the fear inside him eating him away with every mile. 

“Do you want some tea?” George offered, and he was so goddamn sweet Harry wanted to cry.

“Yeah,” he said. “Thanks, man.” He was going to miss George come tomorrow and the realization was the last thing Harry needed, yet another person he let get in his bones without meaning to, yet another person he was going to let down. He watched George work, well-practiced in the precise way Harry took his tea from all the time he had spent watching Sophia make it in before him. He squeezed honey into the steaming mug and he passed it into Harry’s waiting hands and he waited for Harry to take a sip before sitting back down.

“Thank you,” Harry said, delighting George simply by existing. “For everything.”

(Everyone around him gave until they had nothing left to give and Harry was always there to take and take and take.)

George tripped over himself to tell Harry it was his pleasure to get to stand behind him onstage and protect him off and Harry found himself smiling despite the sharp edges of the anxiety in his chest. George was good at what he did and he never failed to make Harry just a little gladder to be very much alive. He clapped George on the back and told him in not so many words that he was going to miss him and George grinned. 

Two hours and counting until they would arrive at Madison Square Garden. Five hours to go before the show was to begin. And seven hours to go until the very end. Harry nursed his tea and he listened to George talk excitedly about what he hoped the concert was like. It was soothing, hearing from George how wild it was that they got to play such a place, and he let George talk for as long as he wanted. He was okay. He was okay.

 

The Troves arrived at Madison Square Garden and hopped one after the other off the bus, the fans already waiting outside screaming for contact. Niall and Liam were more than happy to stop and they took a couple of pictures, Sophia assuring the fans that they would be out to talk for longer after the show. 

“See you on the other side!” Niall waved to the crowd, and they shouted and they cheered as the band made their way inside. George craned his neck to wave as they headed through the door and Harry slung his arm around his shoulders, pulling him inside.

“Don’t break your neck, kid,” he said, and George laughed and pulled Harry to his side by his hip. 

“I just can’t believe it!” he replied, his head nearly colliding with Harry’s nose as he looked up all around them, the venue open and dark and wide. 

(George was not as slight as Louis but he was just as short, all too familiar against Harry’s side as they walked perfectly in sync.)

Harry wanted to pull away but they neared backstage and together they climbed up the steps to the final resting place of The Troves. The moment Harry caught sight of the empty seats he wanted to turn around and change his mind and run away. 

“Holy shit,” George breathed, and he unwound his arm from around Harry to step closer to the empty space of the waiting seats. “It’s so…big.” And there was no other word to describe it. Harry stood at George’s side, Niall and Liam joining him, and all together they stared open mouthed up at the arena all around them. It was far from the biggest place they had ever played but it was without a doubt the most incredible. It was daunting, one of the most famous venues in the world right before them, and Harry imagined how it would look with every seat full. 

“You guys are going to rock the hell out of this place,” Eleanor said, leaning her head on Harry’s shoulder just for a moment as she bounced around the stage like a ping pong ball in the rush to set it up. Harry marveled at the rows and rows of seats as Nick taped set lists to the stage labeled NIALL and LIAM and GEORGE and HAZ, and it was dizzying, the grand scale of everything before him. The arena circled the stage and no matter how hard he tried Harry couldn’t get every seat into his field of vision. And in just a few hours Harry was going to be playing his last show, clutching the microphone stand like it tethered him to the earth. 

“Excuse me, Haz,” Nick said as he crouched at Harry’s feet to tape his set list down with duct tape. “Thanks, man.” He stood and he clapped Harry on the back and Harry watched as Eleanor and Nick caught each other in the middle of the stage and took hold of each other, Nick dipping Eleanor to the stage to make her shriek and laugh. 

“Ew!” Liam teased, feigning revulsion as he danced around Nick and Eleanor as they giggled in the center of the stage.

“Girls have cooties, you know!” Niall shouted to Nick, and the warmth on the stage was the strongest Harry had ever felt. And maybe it was just a little heartbreaking that they had found safety and closeness in one another the moment right before the end. But Harry had no choice but to pull himself together and give the world the show they deserved. 

The fans were let inside from the cold, wet air of March and Harry peeked around the curtains at the side of the stage to watch them fill the seats and the floor. People hung over the barricade, coats slung over the metal bars between the people and the band, and Harry watched them talk and laugh and elbow their way closer to the front. They were excited, the crowd buzzing, and Harry didn’t blame them. How lucky they were to be at the very last show of the tour to witness what was going to be the best damn show The Troves had ever put on. 

And maybe Harry grew more anxious at time went on but it was getting hard to tell, every part of him electric as he eyed the crowd. He focused solely on them, watching the excitement on their faces, and he nearly jumped out of his skin when from behind him someone said,

“They’re real antsy tonight, aren’t they?” Harry spun around to nearly slam into Zayn’s chest as he stood behind him, grinning from ear to ear. 

“Oh my God,” Harry breathed, and before he had time to register that this was real, Zayn had really come, he had wrapped both arms tight around Harry and lifted him off his feet.

“Hey, man,” Zayn said, and Harry felt a pang in his chest as he tried both to laugh and to cry at the same damn time. 

“Put me down, you bastard!” Harry cried, and Zayn dropped him and held him at arms’ length, smiling so wide Harry could see all of his teeth. “What the hell are you doing here?” he said even though he knew. Zayn had promised to be here, the memory coming back to Harry all at once. He felt slow and fuzzy back in Zayn’s presence and Zayn smiled like he felt much the same. 

“I heard The Troves were playing tonight,” he said, “and I figured there was no way in hell I was going to miss their last show.” 

“Oh my God,” Harry breathed, because he was so happy he thought his heart could burst from his chest as Niall and Liam and Sophia and George realized all at once who had snuck in.

“Zayn!” Sophia cried, and Zayn scooped her into his arms like he had done to Harry and swung her in a circle, her ruffled black skirt fanning out, and she clung so tightly to him he had to bend his spine in half to set her down. 

“What the fuck are you doing here?” Niall asked Zayn as Harry spotted who Zayn had brought along with him. 

“I had to see your last show!” Zayn replied, looking ten times healthier than he had the last time Harry saw him. He looked damn good, happier than Harry could ever remember seeing him, and Perrie hovered in the corner of the stage with her hands on her belly and her eyes on Zayn. 

“Perrie,” Harry said, and her wide eyes fell on him. “Come here!” She wobbled towards Harry, her stomach leading the way, and Zayn let go of Liam and reached one hand out to George as Perrie tottered closer. 

“It’s amazing to meet you,” George said in awe, blushing deep pink as he shook Zayn’s hand. And Harry greeted Perrie, a red white and blue hairband in her hair, and he told her it was nice to see her.

“It’s nice to see you, too,” she said, blushing herself. She was closer to demure than Harry remembered, bright and happy as she spoke to Harry, and Zayn glowed every time they made eye contact. And maybe it was for the best, Zayn’s departure into the life he really wanted, and Harry was going to tell himself that over and over. 

Sophia had been furious with Zayn but she was far from it now, leaning close to Perrie and asking quietly for permission to touch her belly.

“Do you have a name?” Sophia asked, cooing over Perrie’s round stomach.

“Olivia, we think,” Perrie said, and Sophia’s face lit up.

“Olivia Malik,” she said, beaming bright enough to outshine the sun at Zayn as he told her Perrie changed her mind every damn day. “That’s a beautiful name.” 

And George was tripping over his tongue as he apologized to Zayn for playing his guitars, Zayn having none of it as George tried to offer him his spot on stage for just this last time.

“No,” Zayn said, “it’s not my place anymore. It’s yours and from what I hear, you deserve it.” He was so far from the man who had left them that Harry wondered why he had waited so damn long to leave. It was miraculous, the change in him, and Zayn fucking Malik would have been the last person Harry picked to be a family man, so proud of his tiny little family, but there it was before him and there was no denying it. 

George was beside himself from Zayn’s compliment and Harry watched the two of them head over to Zayn’s guitar, George showing off the songs he had learned in the past two months of playing at Harry’s side. Sophia wandered away to watch them, too, and Harry stood alone with Perrie. 

“Is life treating him well?” Harry asked of her, and with her hands on her belly she nodded. 

“I think so.” She paused, a question she desperately wanted to ask on her lips, and when she blurted it out Harry figured he should have been expecting it. “And you?”

“I couldn’t be better,” he lied so terribly she choked back a laugh.

“I’m sorry,” she gasped, shocked at her own laughter, but Harry did not blame her. 

“It’s all right,” he assured her. “It’s really all right.” And Nick and Eleanor finished up the stage and they stood back to admire their work, tripping over each other and laughing as they nearly fell. 

The crowd roared as the people who worked at the venue messed with the lights, testing the spotlights and the dozen different colors of lights that would flicker all across the stage. And Nick returned and he pressed Harry’s earpiece into his ear for the last time and Zayn gave him a quick one armed hug as he backed away, grinning widely, to watch with Perrie from the side of the stage. Niall strapped on his bass and kissed his fingers and pointed them to the ceiling, a silent prayer to whomever the hell was listening, and Liam twirled his drumsticks over and over in his calloused hands as Nick helped George strap on his guitar. 

And it was show time. Liam went first and the crowd went wild, Liam raising his arms and cheering right along with them. Niall followed and the cheers amplified, George following soon behind. And they were waiting for Harry, screaming and shouting, and he squared his shoulders with his mic clutched tight in one hand. And maybe he was stupid for hoping such a thing but for just a second he let himself wonder what would happen if Louis was there waiting for him in the front row. But Harry was stupid as he was stubborn and he knew he hoped for too much. 

Sophia pulled him back by the collar of his T-shirt as he tried to head out onstage, yanking him to her to kiss him hard on the cheek. And she was so damn proud, she told him so, and she wiped lipstick off his cheek the best she could. 

“Give them hell, Harry,” she said, and Harry told her he sure would try. He took his place onstage and there they were, the last faces in the crowd Harry would ever see. The last people to ever scream his name. The last people to yearn for him, reach for him, and touch his hands as he stood atop his amp. 

“Good evening, New York City!” he cried, and the pain in his throat did not matter and neither did Zayn’s eyes all over him from backstage. He could do this. This was the end. “How are you this evening?” he roared. He was met with a wave of screams, coming from the front to the back and everywhere in between, and flashes of phone cameras went off in his face and it didn’t bother him at all. 

“That’s what I like to hear!” he told them, and he counted Liam in and let the show begin. 

He did his best to give them all that he could give, hopping off his amp and stepping one foot onto the barricade, close enough to (kiss) touch each and every face in the front row. But he didn’t; they reached out for him, and he let them tug on his jeans, desperate for his hands, and each and every person he reached out for in return went wild. He climbed back onto the stage with the help of one burly security guard and he shouted to the ceiling a goddamn mile above him. And maybe this was where he was born to be and maybe nothing would ever be the same the second he stepped off this stage, but maybe none of it mattered. He couldn’t fucking remember anymore. 

He caught Niall’s eye and he grinned, the same old beatific grin, the same old Niall after all this time. And he craned his neck to look to Liam and there he was, winking back at Harry, and he found himself stunned for the thousandth time that this was the life he was given. It was miraculous, Harry fucking Styles standing on this stage, the goddamn menace who broke everything he touched. But this was not broken, not yet, and he glanced at George and the kid beamed. And he was not broken either, a shining example of everything Harry used to have, and before he knew it Harry was beaming, too. 

“What do you say we have the best show ever tonight?” Harry asked the crowd, and they hopped up and down to see him, a sea of bobbing heads and reaching arms. They loved him. They loved him. 

(And to be loved by people he could never give it back to was an endless thing for Harry, intangible and painful, and over and over he was reminded of the love he received he was not brave enough to return.)

“That’s what I like to hear!” he cried yet again, and for the last goddamn time he counted Liam in as he tried to swallow back the lump in his throat enough to sing his heart out. He was good at what he did, making the crowd swell and roar, and to say he was going to miss this once it all went away was an understatement. But Harry was a menace and he had troubles with worrying and right now none of the aftermath of his very last show mattered. It didn’t matter. Not at all. 

“This is our last song of the evening,” he told the crowd far before he realized it was coming. The audience groaned, knowing this was the end of the Head Space Tour and it would be God knows how long before they laid eyes on Harry Styles again, but Harry hushed them and they obeyed him, falling silent. “I know you’re gonna miss us,” he told them, leaning as close as he could without standing within their reach. “And we’re gonna miss you, too.”

And he was not going to cry; he was not. Maybe he would after the show, tucked inside his bed in the bus for the very last time, but not now. He belonged to the crowd now far more than to himself and he could do this. He began this, years ago as a fucking kid who knew nothing, and he was going to finish it now. 

“But don’t be sad,” he told them, “because this was a helluva tour, you guys are a helluva crowd, and we wouldn’t be standing here if it wasn’t for you. So as we play our last song, think of all the times we were there for each other and not of the times we were not. Can you do that for me?” And there were tears in the front row, wet faces and red eyes beyond the bright white lights, but Harry was not going to cry. 

“Thank you for all your years of support,” Harry told them just to keep down the hot tears in his eyes. “And thank you for the love. I wouldn’t be…I wouldn’t be alive today if it wasn’t for each and every one of you.” 

He waited, watching them watch him, and slowly they began to cheer. But once again he hushed them and once again they fell silent. 

“We’re The Troves,” he said, “and welcome to our last show.” If they understood what he told them they cheered just the same, wild and frantic and reaching with all their might to be touched by his hands. “Thank you.” 

And Liam began to play, Niall and George chiming in, and Harry took his place at the microphone for the last time. And it was okay, the white noise of his voice bouncing back at him in his ear, and it was okay, the silence of the crowd as they cried and wavered before him. And it was okay, the end of all things, because Harry had done what he had set out to do. For better or for worse he had changed lives with his music, the people in the front row who cried for him only a few of the thousands. And Nick and Eleanor leaned on each other offstage and Harry remembered the day Sophia hired them and introduced them, the two of them beaming as they shook hands. And Zayn was going to have a daughter, his arm around Perrie, and he seemed happier than he had ever been and far more sure of himself.

And Louis had fallen in love with Harry before he even met him, inking his words on his skin. And Harry held his microphone tight in his hands and he closed his eyes, willing everything all around him to go away for a moment. And it did, slipping from him as he blacked out the world, and all he heard was the sound of his voice echoing across the floor. 

The song ended. Liam stood up behind him and his drumsticks went sailing over Harry’s head, hands reaching up to the ceiling as faces in the crowd caught them with a cheer. And Liam slipped from the stage and Niall followed him, looking back to salute the crowd, and if Harry did not know any better he would have thought Niall had tears shining in his eyes. George followed Niall, his head bowed as he smiled to the floor. And Harry took one last look at the crowd and he pulled his microphone from the stand to clutch it in one shaking fist. 

“Thank you,” he said. “We love you, goodnight.” And he dropped the mic and it clattered with a shriek to the stage. He left the stage to the loudest roar he had ever heard, and it was just as well that this was the end. Nothing could have topped tonight, not if Harry played every night for the rest of his life. It was magic, this life, and the moment he vanished from the crowd and stepped backstage Sophia was upon him, her arms tight as she pulled him to her chest.

“You’re a regular goddamn menace, Harry Styles,” she cried, and all at once Harry gave in to the tears pressing at his eyes as she held him. 

“Don’t I know it,” he told her, and he pressed his face to her shoulder to try his best to slow his useless tears. It was no longer ending; it was over. And there was nothing else to do but let the adrenaline fade and his tears take him. 

“Lemme at ‘im,” Zayn said, and Harry was passed off like a fucking child as Zayn wrapped his arms tight around him. “You’re all right,” Zayn said as he squeezed the life from him. “You were incredible out there.”

“I was,” Harry moaned. “And it’s over.” He was helpless, crying into Zayn’s shirt, and this was never how he envisioned the end. He wanted to be strong, stepping out into the crowd waiting by the bus and assuring them everything would be all right. But Zayn had one hand on his back and the other at the back of his head and when did Zayn become the one to comfort him? When did he fall apart so messily that no one would be able to pick up the pieces?

“What do you say we go out there and tell them goodbye?” Zayn asked in his ear. “And we hide out in the bus all night long and drink until we can’t remember our names?” And it sounded damn good to Harry as he tried with all his might not to sob.

“Yeah,” Harry said. “Just give me a minute.” And Zayn let him go and Niall and Liam and Sophia were already on their way out of Madison Square fucking Garden, heading out into the chilly night. Zayn took Perrie’s hand and together they looked at Harry. He waved them on and they left him standing there with George at his side. Harry sniffed, wiping his nose on his sleeve, and George asked him,

“Are you all right?”

“Don’t worry about me,” Harry told him instead of telling him the truth. 

“Are you really going out there?”

“I will. Give me a minute.”

“Sure thing. Just…you were amazing up there.”

“You weren’t so bad yourself. Leave me alone.” He let affection fill his voice and George got the message, smiling crookedly at Harry as he made his way towards the back of the stage and towards the exit. And just like he was meant to be, Harry was alone. He tiptoed back towards the side of the stage to peek at the fans waiting eagerly for Nick and Eleanor to pass them the set lists as they unstuck them from the stage. Nick and Eleanor loved to play with them, pretending they were going to rip up the set lists or throw them deep into the crowd, but in the end they always passed them out to breathlessly waiting fans. 

And they loved him so much it hurt deep in his chest as he watched them bounce up and down for a chance to touch a piece of paper Harry Styles’s shoes stepped on. It was wild, the fucking mess of it all, and he stepped too close and the front row caught sight of him.

“Harry!” they began to scream, and he thought of running. He thought of hiding. But he didn’t. He waved, ignoring their requests to come closer, to talk to them, and he called from where he stood,

“I’ll be outside! Don’t worry!” Nick winked at him and Harry pulled back, the crowd groaning at the loss of him, and he almost laughed to himself as he marveled at the love all around him. Why was he continuously surprised by the love they showed him? It never went away and it never dimmed and still he was always shocked by it all. Maybe he was born to stand onstage but more than that he was born into a life of self-loathing and self-doubt. How could someone love him so much when he could hardly look at his face in the mirror?

It didn’t matter now.

Harry stuffed his hands into the pockets of his jeans, sweat drying on his skin, and he trudged towards the exit to join his bandmates and his best friends outside. And maybe in the back of his mind he hoped still to see one face in particular, the only face that mattered in the fucking mess of it all, but he was crazier than he thought if he really expected to see Louis in the crowd. 

“Harry!” the crowd screamed as one the moment they laid eyes on him. “Harry, here!” They all wanted him at once and that was all right; the show was over. He had all the time in the world. 

“Did you enjoy the show?” he asked as he signed his name for the millionth time. 

“It was amazing!” the fans shouted. “What are you talking about, of course we enjoyed the show!”

“That’s what I like to hear,” Harry told them, and he handed back slips of paper, receipts and the remnants of tickets and posters and whatever else it was the fans could find in their pockets. They shivered in the cold, in jackets and sweaters and coats, but the lights onstage were as warm as the sun and still Harry was warm as he stood before them. He gave awkward one armed hugs, apologizing for the sweat on his skin, but they didn’t mind one bit. They loved him. They loved him. 

“When will you be back?” a fan asked Harry with a tug on his sleeve, and Harry told them,

“I don’t know.”

“Soon?”

And he couldn’t lie and he couldn’t run and there was nothing he could do but say, “Not soon, I don’t think so.”

“Why not?” they cried, scared of losing sight of him. 

“Hey now,” Harry said. He could tease them, he could make them laugh, because wasn’t all of this just one big joke? “I have a life outside of you guys, believe it or not! I have some TV shows to catch up on and all that shit, you know?” And they smiled, brave as they realized all at once the gravity of losing The Troves, but they were far stronger than Harry was and they let him go. They let him go. He made his way closer and closer to the tour bus, to home, and flashes went off in his face and Zayn threw open the door of the bus and Harry hopped up the steps. But he turned back, looking across the crowd, and he said once again,

“Thank you. For everything.” And he closed the door and their cries went quiet, muffled by the glass, and Harry wanted to lie down and cry for long enough to forget the reason why. But there was a glass of expensive champagne shoved into his hand and he grinned despite himself, raising his glass to the ceiling of the bus.

“To The Troves,” he said, and they echoed back to him.

“To us.”

 

Late in the morning Harry awoke to sunlight streaming through the windows of the bus. The Troves were to give the bus up today, packing up the last of their things and going their separate ways. And life must go on. Harry pulled the sheets off his bed and he threw what was left in his room into the center of the bed, leaving everything behind. His bag was stuffed full, bulging on all sides, and he tossed it into the aisle of the bus on top of Niall and Liam’s bags as they, too, tore their lives down from the inside of the bus. As they packed and filled garbage bags with empty bottles of vodka and jugs of milk and boxes of cereal Zayn made his way through the bus, pulling his ex-bandmates into bone crushing hugs one after the other. Harry listened to him say goodbye to Niall, telling him more than once how much he loved him and how much he missed him and to please, please keep in touch. He listened to him say goodbye to Liam, Liam trying in vain to pull out of the hug Zayn crushed him in, and Harry waited for his turn to come. 

Zayn stood in the doorway of Harry’s too big bedroom and he knocked despite Harry turning around to greet him.

“Going back home, then?” Harry asked, and Zayn nodded. 

“I’ll be there when your daughter is born, Zayn,” Harry told him. “Just tell me when.”

“Until then, don’t be a stranger,” Zayn replied, but the two of them knew Harry was never going to initiate contact. Sophia had bought him a brand new phone and it sat in the box on the counter in the kitchen; Harry had yet to open it up and turn it on. There was something he liked about being out of reach, something he could never get when he was on tour, but he owed it to his band and to Sophia to be only a phone call away. They were going to worry endlessly once they parted no matter how many times he assured them they did not have to. 

“I won’t,” Harry lied anyway, and Zayn pulled him into a hug. “Take care of yourself,” Harry told him. “Take care of your family.”

“I will,” Zayn replied. And he pulled back and he looked hard at Harry and he said, “And you take care of yourself, all right? Treat yourself well.”

“I will,” Harry replied solemnly. And Perrie gave a wave as Zayn took her hand and just like that the two of them were gone. It took Harry a long moment to get back to what he was doing, throwing things away and shoving loose socks into his bag anywhere he could fit. He moved and he felt like a goddamn robot, working slow and methodically, and maybe feeling robotic was better than feeling too much. There was a floodgate in Harry’s heart keeping everything at bay and one touch could be enough to break it down. 

And Nick and Eleanor approached Harry, timid for a moment, and Eleanor told him with tears swimming in her eyes, “We’re going to miss you, Haz.”

Harry couldn’t have begun to tell them how much he was going to miss them but he sure as hell tried. “Where are you two heading?” he asked instead of breaking down in tears. 

“To Nick’s family,” Eleanor said, smiling from ear to ear. “We’re gonna crash there until we can get our own place.” 

“Don’t hesitate to call us,” Nick told him sternly, “if any of you assholes decide to go solo. I don’t wanna hear through Rolling Stone that Harry fuckin’ Styles has found himself some new roadies.”

“Never,” Harry agreed, and just like that they too were gone. Niall and Liam and George and Sophia were all that was left of the family they had spent so many years building. And it was okay. Harry took deep breaths as he finished cleaning his room, his heart so heavy it sunk to his shoes. He found a single photo tucked underneath his mattress and as much as he wanted to toss it without looking at it, curiosity got the best of him and he flipped it over in his fingers. And there they were, Louis and Harry, smiling as they sat together, Louis in Harry’s lap. And how goddamn happy they were, the two of them without a care in the world. Louis was radiant even in a grainy photograph. Harry’s back ached as he hunched over the picture and he brushed at his nose with the back of his hand. He was not going to cry. He was not.

His fingers brushed the picture and they traced Louis’s face and he should have known then that Louis was going, going, gone. But he didn’t, he hadn’t, and Louis looked so bright and so alive that Harry felt his heart break for the hundredth time. 

But he was going to make it better. It was about damn time, wasn’t it?

Sophia was the next to go, going home to visit family for the first time in months, and Harry was sad to see her go. But she copied his contacts into his new phone and put herself as speed dial number one. 

“Don’t you dare ignore me when I call you,” she warned, and the solemnity in her face made him promise.

“Never,” he said. 

“Here,” she said, and she reached into her pocket and pulled out a glistening silver band. “Put it back on, babe, because I guarantee he’s still wearing his, too.” Harry opened his palm and Sophia dropped Louis’s ring into, Harry letting it roll in his hand for a moment before slipping it on. 

“Thank you,” he said instead of crying, “for keeping it warm for me.”

“Anything for you, honey,” she cooed, and that was all. He let her go, he let her go, and she hugged Niall and Liam and George with all her might and she hailed a cab to the airport and all at once she was gone. It was cloudy, a chilly day in March, and The Troves stood outside the tour bus in the cold and watched Sophia ride away from them. And they all had somewhere to be, somewhere they called home, and Niall and Liam were heading the same way as Zayn towards home where they had grown up so close together.

They did not draw out their goodbye. The Troves had spent the last year saying goodbye, waiting for the end, and it was almost easy now to make it swift. It was sharp and it was painful and even Liam clenched his jaw to keep from crying. 

“I love you, you fucking asshole,” Liam told Harry, and Niall barked a laugh that came out closer to a wounded sob. 

“And I love you,” Harry told him. 

“Jesus,” Niall all but wailed as he hugged Harry to his chest. “This is a lot harder than I thought.”

“I know,” Harry agreed.

“We’re always going to be The Troves,” Niall said as he pulled back, and Harry nodded. “Promise?”

“I promise,” Harry told him. It was all Harry could do to release Niall as tears began to swim in Niall’s wide eyes. 

“Take care of yourself,” Liam said, and he chewed at his lip and Harry pressed him to add whatever it was he stewed over.

“What is it?” Harry asked.

“Take care of Lou, too,” Liam blurted. “Be good to each other this go around.” He looked hard at Harry and squeezed his arm until it began to hurt. Harry could make no promises but he nodded anyway, Liam smiling so fondly at him Harry’s heart could burst. 

“Just for you,” Harry managed to tease. “I’ll do my best.”

And a cab pulled up to the curb and Niall and Liam waved back at Harry and George all the way down the street where they disappeared from sight. 

“Are you okay?” George asked as he threw one arm out to hail one more cab. 

“Not exactly.” Harry would not lie to him, the boy who had the world at his feet, and George nodded because he knew. 

“Will you be okay?”

And Harry tipped his head back to the cloudy sky and waited for an answer to come to him.

“I think so,” he finally said. And George asked for his phone and Harry passed it over. George programmed his number into Harry’s phone and he told him,

“Just in case,” and Harry appreciated the thought more than he would ever be able to say. 

“Thank you for saving us,” Harry said, and for the first time he drew George into a hug. 

“Anytime,” George laughed as they pulled apart and his cab pulled up to the curb. “Take care of yourself,” he said just as sincerely as everyone else and Harry waved as he, too, rode away.

Standing alone before Madison Square Garden, Harry had never felt closer to lonely. But life must go on and Harry could not stand at the curb forever. Life moved all around him, people all over the sidewalks and the streets, and all he could do was keep moving. Harry was not more than half a goddamn mile from the hotel room Sophia had booked for Louis. Every bone in his body wanted to aim him towards the hotel and throw his arms around Louis and never, ever let him go again. 

But something rooted him to the spot where he stood. 

He could chase Louis; he could show up unannounced and he could make some massive, obscenely romantic gesture, put some fucking effort into it. But he knew Louis. At least he used to, anyway, and he couldn’t show up out of the blue and give Louis no chance to escape if running away was what he wanted. He couldn’t do that to him, not again. He ached for missing him but he had time. He could take this slow.

Once again he was going to give Louis the choice to be without him.

He had Louis’s phone number programmed into his phone and all he wanted was a quiet space to call him, to hear his voice and let the sound of it fill his ears with nothing else in between. And with a destination in mind he began to move. He passed Times Square in a blur, too nervous and too wired to stop, and then he doubled back, aiming for the movie theater just next door to Ripley’s Believe it or Not!. Inside it was quiet, blissfully far from the noise of Manhattan, and the hope buzzing in Harry’s chest was almost enough to catch his tired heart on fire. 

He paid for a ticket to some action movie just to get upstairs, the winding escalators taking him to the seventh floor, and he stepped out into the upstairs lobby to the sound of perfect silence. This was it, this was it, and Harry backed himself into a corner and uncurled his fist where his fingernails dug painfully into his palm. And he shook as he dialed, fingers trembling so hard he had to start over three times, and once he finally had the number typed out under his thumb he froze. 

(He had let Louis go, he had set him free, and who the hell did he think he was to reel Louis back in now?)

But he pressed the call button and it was too late, it was ringing, and Harry waited with his heart thudding painfully for Louis to answer. It rang once, twice, three times, and in the middle of the fourth ring the other end burst into life in a blast of static.

“Hello?” Louis asked, and Harry broke down. 

“Lou,” he choked. He was not going to cry, not here, not now, but Louis did not reply and the seconds ticked on and after all this time Louis was still far too much for Harry to get a hold on. “Lou,” he said again.

“Harry,” Louis replied. His voice was just the same as always, beautiful and the best thing Harry had ever heard, and Harry closed his eyes to keep Louis’s voice as the only thing that mattered.

“Hi,” Harry said. And after a moment Louis said,

“Hi.”

“I came for you,” Harry said. “I fucking came for you, Lou, I’m...” He was not going to cry, he was not going to cry. He held one hand on the arm decorated by his anchor tattoo, bearing down with his nails. And he was not going to cry. Not now. “Where are you?” he choked to keep from losing his voice.

“I’m not at the hotel,” Louis breathed in reply. “It was too much. You were everywhere.” And agony painted his voice and there it was, all the pain, and Harry could not keep his stupid tears at bay much longer.

“Where _are_ you, then?” Harry asked. “Soph is going to…she’s going to kill you when she finds out you left.”

“I know,” Louis replied. And he was scared and Harry did not blame him and he didn’t answer the only question that mattered. 

“Lou, where are you?”

“I got a new room,” Louis said. “In the city.” He paused. Harry listened to him breathe on the other line and he conjured up the memory of how it felt to have Louis breathing in his ear. “Where are _you_?” Louis asked. 

“Times Square.” Louis was quiet for a long time and Harry listened to the silence on the other line, Louis so quiet and so small as they said nothing at all. 

“Do you want me to come and meet you, Harry?” Louis asked, and Harry choked on his tears loud enough to startle Louis. 

“Yes,” Harry said. He pulled his movie ticket from his pocket and told him, “I’m at the movie theater next door to Ripley’s. Movie starts in half an hour. On the, uh. The seventh floor.”

And Louis told him, “I can make it.” He hung up, he fucking hung up, and Harry wanted to smash his phone on the pavement of Times Square seven stories below him. But he didn’t. Instead he splashed icy water on his face in the bathroom, telling himself over and over he was not going to throw up, he was not going to drop to his knees and heave over the toilet. He was never going to do that again. It was over and that twisted version of Harry Styles had died onstage just the night before. 

He still looked just the same as always in the mirror, pale and thin as a fucking junkie, and a junkie was exactly what he was. For Louis, for love, for the smell of sugar and cinnamon. It didn’t matter. It didn’t matter. Harry Styles was always going to be a junkie and maybe that was how all of this was supposed to go. He checked his phone, sliding it out of his pocket, and there was fifteen minutes to go before the movie started. And he looked at himself sternly in the mirror and told his reflection,

“You’re not going to run.” And he grimaced in pain, fear rooting him to the spot, and he dried his dripping face on the sleeve of his wool coat and tried to get control of his galloping heart. Louis was coming and he was coming soon and Harry should run before it was too late. He wanted to run, to leave Louis alone like he promised himself he would, but his phone vibrated in his pocket and he pulled it out once more to read,

_I’m here._

And Louis was close, so close Harry could hardly breathe, and he forced himself to lean off the sink and leave the bathroom and wait, leaning against the wall and dying for a cigarette or a shot or five. He tipped his head back to the ceiling and remembered the first time he laid eyes on Louis Tomlinson and his wild blue eyes. Louis was beautiful, the most beautiful man and the most beautiful soul Harry had ever seen, and a long time ago he had belonged to Harry. 

Maybe Harry wanted to be Louis’s this time, the way Louis used to growl, “Mine,” burning in Harry’s ears. With his eyes closed Harry could see Louis clearer than he had ever seen him, bright and very much alive. And he had saved Harry over and over and over and Harry messed with the ring on his finger and let it bite painfully into his skin. 

“Harry,” Louis said, and Harry’s eyes flew open. 

And there he was. 

He looked the same as the day Harry had set him free more than two long, painful months ago. He wore his red wool coat and his tight leather pants and his beat up, dirty Chucks, and he held himself just the same, with his shoulders straight and his damn crazy hair tucked into the collar of his coat. It had been so goddamn long since Harry had laid eyes on him that he felt his stupid heart break just a little bit more at the sight of him. But he was beautiful, he was fucking perfect, and he studied Harry like he too was trying to figure out everything that had changed. And he spoke and Harry pushed up off the wall and he took two steps closer, Louis taking two steps back.

(It was a well-practiced dance and one Harry was tired of dancing.)

“You cut your hair,” Louis said. 

“I did,” Harry replied, tugging at his short hair with one hand and offering Louis a pathetically contrite smile. “I’m sorry.” 

“It’s okay,” Louis said. And then, “Do you want me to buy you some candy before the movie starts?” He nodded towards the concession stand but Harry only had eyes for him, the same perfectly glorious boy he had been the day he boarded a plane for home. 

“No,” Harry said, “Let me.” And Louis did not protest, leading the way to the purple plastic of the concession stand and pointing out a bag of sour gummy worms, the same old boy Harry had given up. Harry paid and thanked the man working the stand, Louis quiet as he led the way towards their theater. 

“What is this movie about?” Louis asked, craning his neck to look up at the sign as they neared their screen. 

“No idea,” Harry said. “Shit blowing up, as far as I can tell.” And Louis laughed, a small sound far from his usual beautiful belly laugh, but it was okay by Harry. It was okay. 

“Sounds good to me,” Louis said, and Harry watched the gentle curves of his body as he led the way up the sticky carpeted stairs all the way to the top row of seats. Louis walked sideways to get to the seat in the dead center of the screen and Harry sat at his right, trailers for some other shitty movies playing as the lights dimmed down. They were the only two in the room. The lights went out and Louis ripped into his bag of candy with the crinkling of plastic as the opening credits began to roll. 

And maybe it was okay that the two of them could not speak, so close to each other that they hit elbows and knees, and Harry was sure that at any moment he could cry. Louis was here, Louis was with him, Louis was at his side. This was all that mattered, Louis so warm beside him. Louis was everything and Harry could not have focused on the movie if he wanted to. He stole a glance at Louis and he sat perfectly still, engrossed in the banging and shooting onscreen as he chewed on neon colored gummy worms. He was watching Harry watching him out of the corner of his eye but he pretended not to be. And that was all right by Harry. 

The movie dragged on. Time went on as it always did and Harry dreaded what would happen when the lights went on. He wanted to take Louis’s hand. He wanted to squeeze his knee. He wanted to kiss him and touch him and love him, right here and right now or wherever Louis would have him. He would wait forever if he had to for the color of the sky, and he yearned to taste the sugar on Louis’s lips and on his tongue. He wanted Louis to cry his name over and over and never stop loving him, not for a goddamn minute. 

(What was wrong with him?)

Louis was either unaware of the electricity between them or he was a better actor than Harry had thought. He ignored it when their knees touched and he ignored it when Harry raised a hand and pretended to fix his hair when he changed his mind about taking Louis’s hand. And the movie ended like all things and the credits rolled, the screen black and white and the lights rolling up. Louis sat still and Harry waited for him to do something, anything at all. Harry was not going to move first. He watched Louis and Louis watched the screen and Harry wondered if maybe he was too late and Louis was trying to think of the best way to tell him he had long ago moved on. 

“That was a damn good movie,” Louis said, and for the first time since leading him into the theater Louis looked directly at him.

“Was it?” Harry asked weakly. 

“Yeah.” He plucked the last sticky gummy worm from its wrapper and popped it into his mouth, rolling his tongue over the candy and contemplating for a moment. “But I might just be saying that because I’ve always had a thing for Keanu Reeves.” He shrugged and Harry wanted to laugh, his beautiful boy the same as he had always been, but Louis balled up his empty bag of candy and Harry caught sight of the bare ring finger on his left hand. 

“Soph said she thought you were lying,” Harry said, “When you told her you took your ring off.” Louis followed Harry’s gaze to his naked finger and he frowned, looking away for a moment before unbuttoning the top buttons of his coat. 

“I kept it safe,” he said. “Where nothing could take it from me.” And he pulled a silver chain from the folds of his sweater and at the end of the chain gleamed the engagement ring Harry had bought him a thousand years ago. “I didn’t lie,” he said. “But you did.” He pointed out the silver ring on Harry’s finger as movie theater employees stepped into the room to clean up for the next show. They beckoned Louis and Harry down and it was time to go. 

Harry followed Louis down the stairs to the exit, out into the brighter lights of the lobby. He blinked in the sudden change of light and Louis looked at him, gnawing restlessly at his tongue. Harry could see what he wanted to ask written all over his face: what now? And neither of them wanted to ask it first and Harry did not want to ask at all, scared to death of the answer. 

“Would you like to take a walk with me?” Louis finally asked, and Harry felt like a bobble head doll for the speed at which he nodded. “Okay,” Louis said. “Follow me.” And Harry did not tell him he would follow him anywhere; Louis already knew. They took the escalators one by one down to the first floor and Louis led the way out into the cloudy and gray light of day. Daylight faded fast and the sun behind the clouds hung low in the sky. 

“It’ll be dark soon,” Louis said, and again Harry nodded. As they walked Harry ached to hold Louis’s hand, remembering how small and soft his fingers were, but he didn’t. He walked just a touch behind Louis, their sneakers slapping the sidewalk, and as night began to fall around them Louis paused to button up his coat. He fumbled with the buttons and in another life Harry would have pulled Louis to him by his lapels and done up the buttons for him, kissing him hard on the mouth and making Louis laugh. But he didn’t. He waited for Louis to fix up his buttons and Louis beckoned him on and the night grew cold around them. Harry pulled his coat tighter around his body as the two of them paced block after block, the crowd of Times Square rapidly thinning and disappearing altogether. 

And all at once the clouds broke and it began to snow. Louis tilted his face up to the sky and the white flakes caught in his long eyelashes, clinging there like shining stars. It was late in the season for snow, the late March air just a little colder than it should have been, but springtime snow was fine by Harry. His hand brushed Louis’s as they walked and without a word Louis caught it, lacing their fingers together. And it felt good, it felt amazing, the heat of Louis’s hand warming Harry to the bone. Hope sprang hot in his chest and try as he might he could not bite it down. Louis was here and nothing else mattered, not his fear nor his bandaged up heart.

“It’s going to look beautiful in the snow,” Louis said, and Harry almost told him,

“Yes, you will.” But he didn’t. Louis squeezed his fingers and Harry squeezed back and maybe this was going to be all right. Because through the misty haze of snow their destination loomed in the distance, Louis’s fingers tightening around Harry’s as he saw it. Harry had never set foot in Central Park before now, the snow swirling through the trees and landing light on the dewy grass. He followed Louis as he would follow him to the end of the earth, and Louis led him through the park and past fountains and people and trees. He balanced precariously on benches, hopping up and hopping down, not letting go of Harry’s hand for a moment as he stayed firmly on the ground. Harry looked up into the snow to watch the love of his life dance up on benches, slipping and sliding on the freshly fallen snow, and every time his sneakers lost purchase on the ground Harry was there to steady him. 

“Where are you taking me?” Harry asked after a long while, Louis balancing on the edge of a fountain. 

“The lake,” Louis replied, and Harry accepted the end of the conversation. He nodded and Louis smiled and soon enough the lake came into focus as they neared the water’s edge. Despite the bite in the air and despite the snow only the very edges of the lake were frozen, the rest of the vast span of water deepest black and rippling up against the shore. It was beautifully serene, the scene unfolding before Harry’s eyes, and Louis wiped a layer of snow off a rock by the shore with one hand and motioned for Harry to sit. He obeyed and Louis sank onto the rock beside him, drawing his legs up to his chest. And he dropped his chin onto his knees and watched the water, Harry watching him, and neither one of them spoke for so long Harry wondered if they’d ever speak again. Or maybe the two of them would develop a secret language in silence, perfectly in tune with one another so no one else could understand. For a moment Harry enjoyed the thought until Louis began to speak, more to the vast stretch of water than to Harry. 

“There were a million things I imagined myself picking up the phone and saying,” Louis said. “But not one of them seemed right. And I’m sorry if you wanted me to call. I’m sorry if you waited. But I waited, too, Haz, and waiting for you was the hardest thing I’ve ever done.” He went quiet for a moment and Harry tried to speak but he went on, voice low as if he was fighting not to cry. “I wanted to go to your show last night,” he said, “but I couldn’t. I know you…I thought I knew you pretty well and I thought maybe me showing up would scare you away even more. And I thought to myself, _what if he meant it? What if he really doesn’t want you?_ and Harry, I cried myself to sleep more nights than I could count. And I’m sorry for that, for all the stupid tears I wasted on you.” His voice was bitter and his eyes angry, the damn color of the morning sky, and Harry did not blame him for his anger. Harry was a menace, after all, a hurricane that caught Louis up and spit him out far, far from home. 

“I’m so sorry,” Harry breathed, choking on his own tears before he realized they were there waiting to fall. Snow landed in his hair and Louis’s eyelashes were painted white, snow melting on his cold reddened nose and on his cheeks. Harry could not think straight, every question in his head answered by the beauty of Louis’s face, and he was close enough to (kiss) taste and Harry wanted to taste him more than anything. 

“It’s okay,” Louis breathed. “Really, it’s okay.” He looked out towards the lake and he sighed, dropping his chin onto his knees. “I told myself I was stupid for wanting you. For, for loving you after…after everything. Fuck, Harry, I tried everything to forget you. Everything. But the second I unpacked I found…I had one of your goddamn socks in my bag and I broke down, crying my eyes out in my bedroom, and I thought there was no coming back from you.” And Harry wanted to tell him he knew exactly what he meant, the smell of Louis never quite leaving his sheets, but Louis sighed and closed his beautiful baby blues and he carried on.

“I thought nothing in my life could ever be as good as loving you.”

And the life Harry lived was not for Louis but Harry was not buried up to his neck in that life anymore. He was free. He was free to love Louis and he was free to take him into his arms and kiss him and never, ever set him free again. But he did not do a thing. He watched Louis watch the rolling water of the lake, the icy cold of night seeping into the marrow in his bones, and it was all right. He would have been happy to die by Louis’s side, right here and right now, if that was what Louis asked of him. 

But that was not what Louis asked.

“So,” he said, turning away from the water and peering at Harry. “What do you think, do you and I have another shot?”

And Harry nearly broke his neck from nodding. “Yes,” he replied, completely breathless. “Yes, I think we deserve one.”

The smile Louis gave him was the best thing by far of all the things Harry had ever seen. 

“Okay, then,” he said. “What do you say we go back to my place?”

“I have a better idea,” Harry breathed, and in this world, in this life, Harry took hold of Louis by the lapels of his bright red coat and he kissed him hard on the mouth, Louis tasting just as sweet as he had tasted the moment Harry said goodbye. When they pulled apart Louis whined, low in the back of his throat, and Harry ate up the sound of his voice as he dove in for the second best kiss of his life, just behind the one he had received a moment before. 

And they fought to speak first, both of them tripping over the words on their tongues, and Harry beat him by a hair, whispering, “I love you,” into Louis’s hot, hot skin. 

“And I love you,” Louis told him, bright and warm and very much alive. “I love you, I love you.” And they kissed in the snow, laying back on the stone not quite wet enough to seep through their winter coats, and Harry covered Louis in kisses anywhere he could reach. This was perfect, this was fine, and the snow dusted over them like a blanket as they lay tangled together, New York City breathing all around them. 

“I love you, Lou, I never stopped loving you,” Harry told him, all the time in the world nowhere near enough to make up for the months they had lost in pretending. “I didn’t think…I didn’t know. I thought I didn’t deserve you, I thought I…”

“Shh, honey,” Louis breathed. “Later. Later, Harry. I love you, too.” 

And Manhattan breathed new life into the heart Harry had thought irreparable, and in that moment if Louis had asked, Harry could have pulled each and every cloud from the sky to reveal a night full of stars. But he didn’t. All he asked from Harry was his lips, kisses passing between them like they had no time at all, and Louis was perfect. Louis was warm. And in this world Louis belonged to Harry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Talk to me on tumblr at ourl0veisgod
> 
> Thanks a million to everyone who is with me to the bitter end; we're almost there :)


	24. Chapter 24

Harry awoke in Louis Tomlinson’s hotel room, warm as the sun melted the snow on the ground. And he sank into the down pillows under his head and contemplated never rising again. At his side Louis slept soundly, his bare chest rising and falling with each slow and easy breath. And Harry loved him, he loved him, he loved him. He did nothing for a long while but watch Louis sleep and wonder how he had ever lived without him. Louis was beautiful as always as he slept, the sun streaming through the window playing through his hair. Harry reveled in the soft perfection of his body, of his eyelashes casting shadows on his cheeks, of his parted lips. 

And for the moment he was Harry’s all over again. 

Harry wanted to write a song for every damn moment he lay at Louis’s side watching him live and breathe. Louis Tomlinson was a song himself, his body blessedly warm as Harry draped an arm around him. He stirred, making a soft, sweet sound in the back of his throat and Harry hushed him with a gentle kiss to his cheek. And in his sleep Louis smiled and for the hundredth time he shattered the wall around Harry’s heart brick by brick. Harry wanted to wake him up with kisses and love him until the sun went down but it was easier and far less painful to lay with one hand on Louis’s heart and watch him sleep instead. 

(Waking up meant figuring out how all of this was meant to go.)

Harry was terrified that this time waking up meant saying goodbye. Last night it was easy to fall into Louis all over again, to kiss him and love him and touch him in all the places he missed the most. But morning meant reality and reality meant two very different boys who were never meant to meet, in this life if in any. Morning meant facing the reality of the reasons they said goodbye and pulling back on the clothes they had torn off each other that lay drying over the heater vent against the wall. The snow had swirled all around them last night as they kissed for so long Harry’s lip began to sting, and morning meant watching the white, white snow melt bit by bit. 

Louis stirred again, his eyebrows knitting together, and Harry raised one hand to press at the spot where they met right between his eyes. 

“Shh,” Harry murmured before Louis even made a noise, and whatever troubled Louis went away as quickly as it came. He relaxed into Harry’s touch and maybe as he slept Harry was his anchor, tying him down to earth where he knew for sure he was safe. Harry splayed his fingers over the deep black rope tattooed on Louis’s skin, the tattoo that tethered him to Harry no matter where they went. Even when they were apart Louis bore the mark that made him entirely Harry’s. And it was beautiful, the mess of it all, and no matter how long Harry had to dance his fingers along Louis’s skin it was never going to be long enough. Minutes turned into an hour, Harry brushing back Louis’s hair with his fingertips, and an hour turned to two. The sun rose high in the sky as dawn turned to morning and Harry tried not to feel the fear burning a hole in his chest. 

He was not afraid. Louis was at his side and Harry had learned a thing or two about love in the time they spent apart. He thought he had, anyway, but the moment Louis sighed and opened his baby blue eyes everything else fell away. Harry marveled at the perfect boy beside him as he dragged himself from sleep little by little. 

“Good morning,” Harry said as Louis turned his bleary eyes to him. “I love you.” And Louis cracked a smile, his lips deep red and puffy from the night they spent kissing each other for all they were worth. 

“I love you, too,” he said in his sleepy, raspy voice, and Harry fell deeper in love every goddamn minute. He was hopeless, utterly helpless, and maybe he would not have it any other way. 

“You’re so beautiful,” Harry told him. He should have told him more; he should have never stopped telling him. But the ring Harry put on his finger gleamed on the chain around his neck and more than anything Harry wanted to take it from him and propose to him all over again. Fear kept him at bay, Harry’s stomach twisting in agony at the thought that maybe Louis did not want him anymore. That Louis would tell him no and Louis would ask him to leave. He swallowed the hot lump in his throat and tried his best to keep breathing. 

“Not,” Louis replied, yawning so wide Harry could have counted each and every one of his teeth. 

“You are,” Harry insisted. 

“I haven’t brushed my hair since you left me,” Louis told him, and it was such a simple little thing, something small, but it broke Harry’s heart just the same. 

“Go brush it now,” Harry said, and Louis laughed as he rolled from his back to his side to prop himself up on one elbow and look at Harry. 

“Not getting up,” Louis said, “not ever.” 

“Me neither,” Harry agreed. And Louis’s hair was wild, longer than it had been when Harry said goodbye, and it was perfect to Harry. Louis smiled and the corners of his eyes crinkled up and Harry had missed him so deeply it still felt surreal to have Louis at his side. “You’re so goddamn beautiful,” he said again, because a lifetime of chances was never going to be enough. 

“Not,” Louis said. And he leaned close to brush Harry’s hair back, frowning as his hand landed soft on Harry’s cheek, and he said with a devilish smile, “I miss having something to grab onto.” He tried to pull Harry’s hair but he didn’t have enough, Louis’s fingers carding through. 

“I’m sorry,” Harry told him. “I was trying to get you out of my system.” 

“And how did that work out for you?” Louis asked, sadness darkening his eyes and twisting his lips down at the corners. And Harry closed his eyes, remembering the way he had cried when he begged Eleanor to cut his hair, and the story was one Louis should hear but one Harry was not going to tell him today.

“Terribly,” he admitted, and he opened his eyes and let the memory fade away. He could not keep his eyes off the ring dangling around Louis’s neck from the delicate silver chain, and if Louis caught him looking he did not let on. 

“Did you miss me?” Louis asked as if there was any doubt in his mind. 

“Every goddamn day.”

“Every day?” 

“Every day.” Louis bit his lip, pulling it into his mouth, and Harry watched with hungry eyes as his tongue poked out between his teeth. 

“I never knew I could miss someone so much and still be alive,” Louis said after a long moment. “It was the worst pain I ever felt. Harry, I cried from the second I got on the plane to the second we landed. And…and the woman sitting next to me, I could tell she wanted to ask me what was wrong, but she didn’t. She just kept handing me tissues, I have no idea where she got them from, but she kept handing me tissues and she never said a word.” Louis looked hard at Harry, the memory eating him alive, and Harry knew the feeling well. 

“I’m so sorry,” he said. It was stupid, a small thing that meant nothing at all, but Louis nodded just the same. 

“I know you are,” he said. “I knew you were even before you said goodbye.” And Harry looked at him and he looked at Harry, close enough to kiss, and the smile he offered Harry was wan as Harry stared. 

“I’m going to love you forever, Harry Styles,” he said, and to Harry it sounded an awful lot like an apology. 

“Every day?” Harry asked, and as he teased him Louis grinned.

“Every moment of every day.” 

(What was goodbye, anyway, besides a heartbreaking word? Love was a word just the same, and so was forever. What made goodbye any different?)

“Louis,” Harry said. 

“What?”

“Can I tell you what I figured out while…while we were apart?”

“What did you figure out?”

“I figured out that I can live without you. Hell, I can even be happy.” He spoke slowly and Louis clung to every word, his blue, blue eyes wide and shining. 

“Yeah?” Louis asked. And Louis was just as scared as Harry; he could see it in his eyes. 

“Yeah,” Harry said. “But I also figured out that I don’t want to.” 

The grin that Louis grinned was the most beautiful thing of all the things Harry had ever laid eyes on, his perfect boy smiling bright enough to outshine the morning sun on the snow outside the window. 

“You’re in this,” Louis said, and it was a statement and it was a question that made his voice shake as he spoke.

“Yes,” Harry said. 

“You’re always going to want me.”

“Always.”

“Are you sure that I’m going to be enough for you?”

“More than enough,” Harry told him. 

“You sent me away,” Louis reminded him, and the pain his voice caused was enough to shake Harry to the goddamn bone. 

“I know,” Harry said. “I was wrong. I thought you…I thought that I couldn’t keep you. That I wasn’t good enough for you. That I didn’t deserve you, that I was too broken…”

“You’re a fucking idiot,” Louis interrupted, and Harry did not have time to say,

“I know I am,” before Louis was kissing him, his mouth sweet and his voice sweeter. 

“I love you,” Louis breathed between kisses. “Love you so, so much.” And Harry was a goner for Louis as he rolled over to pin Harry to the bed by his wrists. 

“I love you, too,” Harry breathed, because a million times was never going to be enough. 

“Kiss me,” Louis demanded as if Harry was not already nipping desperately at Louis’s lips. “Kiss me, kiss me.” And Harry obeyed. He pulled Louis close by his hair, kissing him hard enough to make Louis lose his breath, and the next time Harry sunk his teeth into Louis’s lip he gasped out loud. 

“Fuck,” Louis cried, wrecked by Harry’s lips, and it was all over. Harry lunged forward, shoving Louis back by his shoulders and landing on top of him, pinning Louis to the white sheets. “Fuck,” Louis breathed again.

“I know,” Harry agreed. He kissed Louis on the mouth, his lips impossibly soft, and already Louis was hard and mewling beneath him. 

“Want you,” Louis cried, whimpering as Harry kissed him hard over and over along his jaw and to his throat and back again. “Want you, want you.” And again Harry told him,

“I know.” Louis wanted him, Louis wanted him, and that was all that mattered. Harry kissed him from his temple to his throat, his tongue on Louis’s skin, and maybe it was an ugly picture, Harry and Louis, but it was nothing Harry would change for the world. 

“Love you, love you,” Louis gasped over and over. His voice was thick with want as Harry carded one hand through his hair and danced the other down his ribs and to his stomach. Louis was all heat, all sweat slicked skin and breathy gasps for air, and Harry pressed his fingers hard into Louis’s hip and the moan that escaped Louis’s lips was the best damn thing Harry had ever heard. 

“Mine,” Harry said, asking it of him, begging it. And Louis closed his eyes against Harry’s touch and he parted his lips, complacent and limp under Harry’s hands.

“Yours,” Louis told him. “Yours, yours.” It was beautiful, Louis’s body warm as Harry splayed his fingers through the hair on Louis’s stomach, and Louis tried to say his name but it came out strangled and small as Harry wrapped his hand around him.

“Fuck,” Louis choked. Harry had missed him, he had missed him. And he whined as Harry began to stroke him, bucking desperately in Harry’s hand, and Louis’s hair tickled Harry’s face as he buried his nose in the warm crook of his neck. He smelled just the same as always, sugar and spice and boy, and Harry kissed him on the spot where his pulse raced just beneath his skin on his throat. How Harry had lived without this, without touch, for so long, he had no fucking idea. But Louis was here, Louis was real, and Harry wanted him so badly he thought he could erupt. 

Louis arched his back off the bed and Harry pressed him down by his chest, his lips finding Louis’s collarbone and his tongue caressing the soft curves of Louis’s bones. He had missed him, the slopes of his skin, and the ring on Louis’s chest was cold in Harry’s hands. It did not belong there and Harry wanted to tear it from his throat and propose right this very second, naked in bed with nothing but twisted sheets between them. But it was too hard, he was too goddamn hard, and he couldn’t have spoken to tell Louis all of this even if he tried. He settled for, “I love you,” because it was one thing that was never going to change and Louis told him, “I love you,” in return. 

Harry kissed his way down Louis’s chest, Louis moaning in protest at the loss of Harry’s lips on his, but his hands played through the hair at the nape of Harry’s neck as his soft noises of complaint turned slowly into something else entirely. 

“Fuck,” Louis hissed, his skin hot under Harry’s lips. He nipped and sucked his way down Louis’s chest, pressing his lips to Louis’s chest over his racing heart. “Fuck, Harry, Hazza, my Haz.”

(He had missed that, he had _ached_ for that, to hear Louis call him _Hazza_ like no one else ever had before.)

He stroked Louis and Louis bucked up into Harry’s hand as he teased him, moving his hand so slowly Louis began to whimper in pain. But it was beautiful, something small and simple, and Harry loved him, he loved him, he loved him. 

(And maybe he was going to get a lifetime to never let him forget it.)

Harry released Louis and he watched as Louis’s eyes flew open. 

“What?” Louis asked, searching Harry’s face, and Harry could hardly breathe for the gorgeous grace of him. 

“Missed you,” Harry said simply. “I fucking missed you.”

“Yeah?” Louis asked, dropping his head onto his pillow and fighting to catch the breath Harry took away. “Yeah, well I could have died for missing you.” Harry knew the feeling, he knew it better than damn near anything, and it was agony. It was pain that never went away, pain that never faded, and the thought of Louis feeling a quarter of the agony Harry felt was too much to bear. He would not (could not) dwell on it; the past was dead and gone and buried and it couldn’t touch them now. But pain flashed dark across Louis’s face as Harry met his eyes and nothing mattered, nothing at all, except for Harry erasing the darkness from Louis for as long as he could. 

“I love you,” Harry told him, tasting every word. “And I’m not going to ever let you forget it again.” He did not give Louis time to reply; he didn’t want to hear it. There would be time for sorry and time for pain and time for feverish apologies and explanations later. Now Louis was complacent in his hands and Louis was the blood in Harry’s veins as much as he was the color of the sky. 

“Kiss me,” Louis demanded, and it was a demand Harry would never stop wanting to obey. He kissed Louis to make up for each and every kiss they had missed out on in their months apart, kissing him three times for every one they could have shared. Louis was breathless and Louis was beauty and Harry let him bite and pull at Harry’s lips, the taste of him all Harry wanted. But Harry pulled away, Louis groaning in protest, but his voice and his breath stopped altogether when Harry began once again to kiss and lick his way down Louis’s body. He kissed down Louis’s ribs, one hand still tethering him to the bed by his chest, and Louis’s breath hitched as he dipped his tongue into the curve of Louis’s hip. 

“Haz,” Louis breathed, such a small and simple thing. But Harry had missed him, he had missed him, and Louis crying his name was the only thing Harry ever needed. 

“My Lou,” Harry told him in reply, pressing careful kisses into Louis’s stomach where he knew it would make him laugh and squirm. And it did, Louis warm and soft beneath him, and more than anything Harry had missed the safety of knowing Louis was there and he wasn’t going anywhere. 

“Yours,” Louis told him. No matter how many times he breathlessly reminded Harry it was still going to be music to his ears, warmth settling over him like a blanket, and he pressed messy kisses into Louis’s soft stomach and told him in not so many words how goddamn much he had missed him. And Louis’s hands all over him told him he had missed him, too. When Harry lifted his mouth from Louis’s body to bury his nose in the hair on his stomach (God, Harry had survived for far too long without the smell of Louis; it was a goddamn miracle he was still here, still alive, to tell Louis now) Louis gasped, his hands pausing in the middle of Harry’s spine. For a long moment Harry stayed there, breathing in the sweet smell of his skin, and Louis let him, hardly breathing at all. 

And Harry needed a release. He needed to let go of the months of being apart, the months of hiding a photo album far out of his sight, the months wasted trying to forget the color of the sky. He needed to let go of the months he spent alone in his bed, staring at the ceiling with his own cum cooling on his stomach after he succumbed to thoughts of Louis, to thoughts of the way he parted his lips as Harry took him into his mouth. 

Here it was, here it was, and Harry dipped his tongue lower and lower as Louis writhed beneath him, very, very much alive. And Harry had missed this, had missed the taste of his Louis, and he took Louis into his mouth and listened to nothing but the sweet sound of Louis moaning in pleasure in the warm hotel room. They could have been far away, across the ocean in some hotel with Niall and Liam in the next room over, far before any of this. Before any of the loss and broken hearts and long, empty nights. But they were here, they were together, and Harry was not going anywhere. The deeper Harry took Louis in the quieter his moaning grew, Harry’s perfect boy going quiet as he worked his tongue up and down the length of him. 

And as Louis came undone so did Harry, the two of them collapsing together into the bed, and it was so fucking beautiful, the chaos of it all. Harry rested his cheek on Louis’s thigh, breathing hard as he came down, and Louis made a soft noise of contentment that made Harry think he could go all over again. 

“Love you,” Louis cooed as he ran his fingers through Harry’s hair. 

“And I love you,” Harry reminded him, his lips on Louis’s skin. They were here and they were together and not one thing else in the entire world mattered to Harry. He pressed his lips to the soft skin on the inside of Louis’s thigh and he sighed, arching up into Harry’s touch even as his heart raced in the aftermath of his orgasm. 

“Amazing,” Louis told him, utterly breathless. “You’re amazing.”

“Thanks,” Harry told him in between tiny kisses. “You’re not so bad yourself.”

 

Harry listened to his phone ring on and off all day, Sophia worried about where he was in the world, and when he finally tore away from Louis’s arms he picked up his phone and prepared himself for twenty voicemails telling him he was in big trouble. But she had called ten times and left no messages, only a single text that made Harry’s lips quirk up into a smile causing Louis to ask,

“What’s with the grin?” And Harry showed Louis the text message on his screen, the simple message that caused Harry’s heart to swell so powerfully it was almost painful. 

_Are you with him?_

she asked, and three minutes after Harry texted her back to tell her,

_I am._

she replied with a concise,

_I’m proud of you._

And Harry dropped the phone on the carpet as Louis tackled him to the floor, covering him in kisses as if the past five hours of them had not been nearly enough. Harry’s head hit the floor and all the air left his body, Louis all over him, and it was all right. It was far better than all right; it was perfection. Louis was insatiable and Harry was more than happy to keep up. Over and over Louis moaned to the ceiling, his baby blues falling closed, and Harry found himself whimpering Louis’s name so loud Louis laughed, slamming a hand over his mouth as they listened to housekeeping walk by in a jangle of keys down the hall. 

“I love you,” Louis laughed, his smile so wide he looked like a shark as he beamed. He did not let go of his hold on Harry’s lips and Harry kissed his palm, making him smile even wider. “I love you so much.”

And Harry would have told him the same if he could have spoken around Louis’s warm hand, but it didn’t matter anyway. Louis could have seen the I love you in Harry’s eyes from a thousand miles away. And Harry had been a thousand miles away, he had been three thousand goddamn miles away, and he was never going to wander so far from Louis again. Louis released him and he sat on Harry’s hips, pinning him to the itchy hotel carpet. 

“You’re so damn hot when you look at me like that,” Louis told him, and he scrunched up his nose and laughed as Harry feigned confusion. 

“Like what?” he asked.

“Like you can’t get enough of me,” Louis said.

“Ah,” Harry replied. “I can’t.” He tried to sit up to kiss Louis, his lips far too far away, but Louis held him to the floor by his shoulders and smiled devilishly down at him as he squirmed.

“You’re mine,” Louis said as Harry tried his best to gain the upper hand. 

“I’m yours,” Harry agreed. 

And all at once Louis grew somber, the smile on his face fading as he watched Harry. “What’s going to happen tomorrow, my baby Hazza bee?” he asked, and Harry’s heart ached from missing the way Louis’s tongue danced around his name. 

“I’m going to have my way with you all day long,” Harry told him, “and I’m going to take you somewhere nice and buy you anything you could ever ask for.”

“Yeah?” Louis replied through the ghost of a laugh. 

“Yeah.”

“And the next day?”

“We’re going to sit here and watch shitty TV all day long, completely naked.” And Louis began to laugh again, his eyes closing as he tossed his head back to the ceiling. 

“And what about the day after that?” 

He was not really asking for a goddamn itinerary of every day; Harry knew that. What he was asking was if Harry was here for good, if Harry was going to get scared, if Harry was going to leave him. If Harry was ready now to love him. And Harry looked up at his perfect boy, the fading sunlight streaming through the window giving Louis a halo of light, and there were no words that would be enough to tell Louis he was not going anywhere. He tried anyway, Louis’s face soft and his lips parted as he listened to Harry spill his soul out into the hotel room.

“The day after that,” Harry said, “I am going to take care of you. I’m going to spend the rest of my life making sure you don’t forget for a minute how sorry I am for everything I put you through. Tomorrow you’re going to wake up and I’m going to be there. I know I’m not much, Lou, but I love you. I love you more than I did five minutes ago, more than I did five months ago.” He took hold of the ring on the chain around Louis’s neck, giving it a gentle tug to make Louis lean closer to him. “And if I’m not too late, if you’ll have me, I want to marry you. I want you and I want you forever. I know…fuck.” 

(He was not going to cry, he was not going to break down. Not here, not now.)

“I know I fucked up,” he managed, Louis looking down at him with an unreadable expression on his face as he pinned Harry painfully to the ground. “I know I didn’t deserve you before but I think I might now and I hope I’m not too late.”

Louis looked down at him for a long moment with his hair in his eyes and his tongue between his teeth. And when he spoke he said the same thing Harry had heard a hundred times before. But he said it with affection, not with the tiredness and sharp hands of Sophia, and he told Harry the truth with a shit-eating grin on his devilish face. 

“You’re a goddamn menace, Harry Styles,” he said, and the moment he lifted his hands from Harry’s shoulders Harry lunged forward to pull Louis into his lap and pull Louis into a hug. Louis wrapped his arms tight around Harry’s neck and Harry wrapped his around Louis’s middle and he cradled his boy to him on the floor in his hotel room, the sun setting scarlet in the sky. He listened to Louis’s heart and he shut his eyes against the world as Louis sighed, breathless, in his ear.

“Don’t I know it,” Harry said for the goddamn hundredth time, and Louis nipped at his ear as he laughed. It hurt, it hurt, but it was a pain Harry loved. A pain Harry found safety in. 

“Ask me,” Louis said, his face buried in crook of Harry’s neck. 

“I can’t,” Harry whispered against Louis’s skin. “You have my ring.” And Louis laughed a big beautiful belly laugh, pulling just far enough away to give Harry access to the clasp of his silver chain, and Harry snapped the necklace open and let the cold golden ring land icy in his palm. He tossed the chain to the side, the ring heavier than he remembered, and he shined it with his thumbs as he turned it over and over in his fingers. 

“What’s wrong?” Louis asked, and there was nothing. Nothing had ever been so goddamn right. Harry shook his head, his hands shaking as he watched the ring gleam, and he said to Louis, 

“Get up.” Louis groaned and Harry felt much the same, already missing Louis’s skin as he struggled his way to his feet. And Louis helped Harry to stand and he guided his Louis to the bed and pushed him gently down to sit on the mattress. “What are you doing?” Louis asked as he looked up at Harry. And his hair was so damn long, wild and mussed from a day spent in bed, and Harry brushed it back with both hands and Louis all but purred. 

“I’m doing this right,” Harry said, and for the second time in his life he prepared himself for proposing to the only man he had ever wanted. His knees creaked in protest as he sank back to the carpet at Louis’s feet, the ring in both of his hands stealing warmth from his fingers. And he looked up at Louis from where he kneeled between his knees and he was not scared by the hot lump that made his voice come out a squeak. Louis smiled as he cleared his throat, his eyes shining bright, and Harry took hold of Louis’s left hand as he opened his mouth to speak.

“Louis Tomlinson,” he said. (He was never going to tire of tasting the name on his tongue but it was going to be even better when he got to say something like Louis Styles-Tomlinson.) “Will you marry me?”

“Yes,” Louis said before he even finished asking. “Yes, I think I will.” And Harry slid the ring onto his finger, Louis’s hand so warm in his own, and when he locked eyes with Louis he was not the least bit surprised to see tears on Louis’s cheeks. “Come here,” Louis choked, and he took hold of Harry by his cheeks and kissed him so hard his head spun. 

“I love you,” Harry tried, but Louis was crying too hard to reply and he pulled away, burying his face in his hands. And Harry stood up from the floor and he made his way to the bathroom, scooping tissues into his hand from the box on top of the toilet, and he returned to Louis and handed him the wad in his hand. 

“I love you,” Harry told him again. Louis looked up at him through a haze of tears and he was perfect, beauty in the way he smiled through his tears. 

“I would have waited my whole life for you to ask me again,” Louis told him, and he dabbed hopelessly at the tears on his cheeks as Harry took in the gravity of his confession.

“I’m so sorry,” he said, but Louis shook his head. 

“I love you,” he breathed. “I’m only telling you that because I knew you’d figure out how to be ready. In the end.” And he shook his head, his hair falling over his eyes, and his voice shook as he said, “Fuck, I fucking love you.” He threw his arms around Harry and it hurt, their bodies crashing together, but it was perfect and it was lovely and it was all Harry had ever wanted. Harry had been stupid and Harry was never going to let him go again, and as Louis cried in his arms Harry tightened his hold on his Louis, his tether, and maybe that was how all of this was meant to go. 

 

It took three days for Harry and Louis to disentangle from each other and leave the hotel room. They stepped together out into an early April morning and the air was warm, spring finally sprung, and they held hands as they made their way down the crowded Manhattan streets. They passed through Times Square and passed by people they hardly paused to walk around. Louis had a tight grip on Harry’s hand and Harry would not have it any other way. They slipped into a bakery, sharing a massive cupcake with garish pink and purple frosting, and Louis dabbed some on Harry’s nose and laughed at the ceiling when Harry tried his best to lick it off. 

And it was goddamn incredible, the ease of it all, and Harry dragged Louis into a flower shop and asked him to pick out his favorite stems. Louis pulled baby’s breath and pink and orange carnations one by one from iced buckets of water, making himself a bouquet he held in his fist, and Harry held a blue hydrangea to Louis’s chest and compared the color to his eyes.

“This would look good on you,” he said, handing the bunch of flowers to Louis to stick back in the bucket on the wall, “in your suit on our wedding day.” And Louis blushed crimson, biting back the biggest smile, and Harry was so smitten he thought he could conquer the world from the warmth of it all. A woman wearing a hairband made up of lilacs braided into her curls bustled over to them with a binder in her hands and she beamed as she said,

“I heard the word _wedding_! What can I do for you?” And Louis laughed his big beautiful laugh and he told the girl,

“It’s a while off yet. But how do you feel about carnations?” He smiled at Harry over her head as she tossed open her binder to show Louis overflowing centerpieces made of red and white carnations, Louis poking his tongue out and making funny faces as she spoke.

“Personally I love carnations; I think they’re absolutely beautiful…” and Harry would have taken Louis to the altar right now if Louis would have had him. They made faces at each other, Louis’s tongue between his teeth, and when the girl between them looked up at him Louis had to rearrange his face into a smile. 

“I love carnations, too,” Louis said, indicating the flowers in his hand. He grinned, perfection in his face, and the girl couldn’t help but smile back. Louis had that effect on people; he still had that effect on Harry. And neither the girl nor Harry stopped smiling the whole time the girl wrapped Louis’s bouquet up in white tissue paper and tied it with an orange ribbon to match the petals of the flowers. She passed it off to him and told them to keep the little shop in mind when their wedding came around, and Louis promised with sincere solemnity. She told them to have a wonderful day and Louis promised he would do that, too, winding his arm through Harry’s and winking as he told her,

“Every day with him is wonderful.” She simpered at Louis’s saccharine sentiment and Harry lost it once they were back out into the street, laughing as Louis began to show his devilish side. 

“You’re such a hopeless romantic,” Harry teased, jostling Louis’s shoulder with his own.

“You are,” Louis corrected him, and Harry knew enough to know that he was right. He was hopeless in every way for Louis, for his smell and his touch and his voice and his eyes, and they wandered the streets with their hands clasped together and their footsteps perfectly in sync. Louis’s eyes shone in the brilliant light of day, Harry still in disbelief that winter was over and Louis was at his side. There was a breeze that chilled Harry instead of biting deep into his bones, the freeze of January far behind him. 

He had survived it all. Louis began to whistle at his side, a song Harry did not recognize, and there was yet another thing Harry had not known about him. He ached to learn it all, every last thing, and he had a lifetime to do it. 

“I didn’t know you could whistle,” Harry said as he squeezed Louis’s warm fingers in his own. Louis looked at him out of the corner of his eye and he said,

“That’s okay. Until today I didn’t know you liked buttercream frosting.” He shrugged and he beamed, bright and warm. “Sometimes I think I could live forever and still learn new things about you every day.”

Harry felt the same way, hopelessly lost in the parts he didn’t know about Louis, and he pulled Louis off the sidewalk and up against a sun baked brick building. He kissed him there, Louis’s lips soft and warm, and Louis breathed Harry’s name as Harry told him how much he loved him with gentle touches alone. When they pulled apart Louis gasped, his cheeks pink, and Harry apologized for nearly crushing Louis’s beautiful bouquet.

“It’s okay,” Louis breathed. “It’s okay.” 

The rest of New York City could have burned away behind Harry and he would have never noticed. He kissed Louis again, leaving him breathless, and for a long while all they did was lean into each other on the wall. 

“I love you,” Louis told him. His ring gleamed and so did his eyes and Harry did not reply, painting his own _I love you_ into Louis’s skin with careful lips. And Louis got the message loud and clear. 

 

Louis and Harry had no plan, living out of duffel bags as they had for months before, and that was just fine by Harry. Louis’s bouquet stood balancing in a glass of water on the same counter as the coffeemaker and it looked perfect there, lighting up the room in shades of orange and pink. The two of them lounged in the living room watching TV, Louis lying down with his head on Harry’s lap, and Harry played with his hair and wound it around his fingers. It was starting to curl at the ends and Harry marveled at the beauty of the soft spirals, pulling his fingers through and making Louis squirm and try to swat him away. Louis picked some sitcom from when he was a kid, one Harry had been just a touch too old for by the time it began, but they watched it anyway and Louis laughed again and again. Harry stroked Louis’s hair, Louis catching his hand now and then to press kisses to the pads of his fingers.

And Harry was so goddamn happy he kept waiting for the end of it all. It was not possible that he was so happy he could burst, free from everything that had broken his heart without a permanent scar. But here he was and here was Louis and they lazed in front of the TV with no plans for the future and not a care in the world. As Louis closed his eyes, yawning and sleepy, Harry laid one hand over his heart and reveled in the truth: the heart beating beneath his hand belonged solely to him. He watched Louis fall asleep in front of the TV, the remote clattering to the floor, and Harry watched late night cartoons with Louis in his arms. 

Harry’s phone rang from far away in the bedroom and Harry would answer it later. He would sit here forever just watching Louis sleep if he could; he always made tiny noises in his sleep that made Harry fall more in love every goddamn second. But his phone rang again as Harry plunged his hand back into Louis’s hair and he sighed, shaking Louis gently by the shoulder.

“Baby,” Harry breathed. (It never stopped tasting sweet on his tongue; Louis was his baby and nothing could have been better.) “Lou, hey, time to go to bed.” 

“Sleeping here,” Louis groaned, and he frowned when Harry pulled his hair. 

“No you’re not,” Harry told him. “Even if I have to carry you.”

“Ah,” Louis purred, nuzzling into Harry’s stomach, “carry me.” 

“You have to get off me first, sweetheart.” Louis grumbled but he sat up, cracking his back as he rolled his neck, and as Harry rose and stretched out his limbs Louis raised his arms to Harry. 

“Carry me,” he said again, and Harry was more than happy to scoop his beautiful boy into his arms. He cradled Louis to his chest, holding him up under his thighs, and Louis bit and nipped at Harry’s neck as he carried him to their bed. Harry tossed him unceremoniously onto the mattress to wipe spit from his throat and Louis crawled beneath the sheets and tucked himself in. 

“Come to me,” Louis cooed, and Harry unbuttoned his jeans and let them hit the floor as he reached with his other hand for his phone. A voicemail from Zayn waited for him and he held the phone to his ear as he watched Louis try to struggle out of his clothes without getting out of the warm bed. On the other line Zayn’s voice crackled into life and Harry reached behind him to stroke at Louis’s hair, just to placate him as he whined for Harry’s attention. 

“Hey, man,” Zayn’s voice said. “Sorry for calling so late, but I just wanted to tell you. That shitty magazine just published another article about us. Yeah, I know,” he said as Harry gasped out loud, as if he had imagined Harry doing so as he spoke into the phone. “They can’t quit with you. Anyway, it’s not bad or…or anything, I just don’t know how I feel about it. Give it a read. And call me. And tell Soph I said hello. Oh, and Perrie wants to know what you two think of the name Trinity instead of Olivia.” Zayn made a soft noise with his tongue and Harry almost laughed at exact face he knew Zayn pulled as he made the scoffing noise. “Anyway, call me after you read it.” He hung up and the phone went quiet, Louis pulling at the back of Harry’s shirt to try to get him under the covers. 

“Who was it?” Louis asked as Harry leaned back into his touch. 

“Zayn.”

“What did he say?” But Harry was already online, typing the familiar name of the magazine into his phone with not so steady fingers, and he scrolled through their website on his tiny screen and searched for the article Zayn called to tell him about. It could not have been particularly good if Zayn had felt the need to call him to tell him about it, and Louis propped his chin on Harry’s shoulder to read behind him as Harry saw his (former) band name flash across the screen. Without pausing to puzzle over the title Harry opened up the article and began to read.

“Troubled rock band The Troves have unofficially called it a day,” the article began, “according to a source close to the band. Which leads us to ask: why would The Troves quit at the height of their fame? With no word from enigmatic front man Harry Styles, the world and the fans were left to wonder what would become of one of the best bands in modern rock music.” 

Harry scanned the article at lightning speed, breezing past mentions of his drug use and Zayn’s abrupt exit from the band, the writer speculating about the cause of the end without getting anywhere near the real thing. They blamed Harry’s drinking and they blamed Harry’s near death; they blamed George and they blamed Perrie. And then came Louis, his name garish on the screen, and Harry felt Louis wrap one hand around Harry’s arm and squeeze as together they leaned closer to the tiny words.

“While not one interview has been secured with the enigmatic front man of The Troves…” 

“They keep calling you that,” Louis teased even as he held his breath, the words on the screen scaring him as badly as they were scaring Harry. “I don’t think they know what that word means.”

“I’m plenty enigmatic,” Harry tried to shoot back in reply, but his voice was shaky and the two of them did not tease each other for long. 

“While no interview has been secured with the enigmatic front man of The Troves,” Harry read over again, “sources close to the band have stated that Harry Styles’s love life may be to blame for the band reaching their breaking point. Reportedly the brand new fiancé of Harry Styles, Louis Tomlinson, played one disastrous show in January with The Troves.” 

Louis’s hand tightened on Harry’s arm and it hurt, Harry’s heart pounding, and he wanted to smash his phone against the wall, desperate to do anything to stop reading the goddamn article, but when he tried to turn off his phone Louis caught his hand.

“Let me read it,” he snapped, all traces of sleepy contentment gone from his voice. And Harry obeyed. 

“Fans and reporters alike saw the dramatic aftermath of the show, Louis Tomlinson vanishing soon afterwards, and in dealing with his broken heart Harry Styles lashed out at his bandmates and at guitarist of Pilot’s Poison, Michael Clifford. Mr. Clifford declined to comment on Harry’s attack, leaving our accounts to those of the fans who witnessed it. ‘It was brutal,’ claimed one fan who wished to remain anonymous. ‘He was screaming in Michael’s face after throwing him to the ground. We all thought he was going to kill Michael.’ Known to be unstable, it seemed that Harry Styles’s dramatic break up was the straw that broke the camel’s back.”

And Harry dropped his phone before Louis could stop him, rolling over to drape one arm over his eyes as if that would make anything go away. It hurt, after all this time; it hurt, the way no one quite understood (the great and enigmatic) Harry Styles and how after all this time all they wanted to do was tear him down. It didn’t matter; he didn’t care. But seeing Louis’s name out there for all the world to see was more painful than anything, Louis silent at his side. And if he was going to lose Louis he was going to lose him to them, to all the people who thought they knew everything about Harry and who and how he loved. And it was ridiculous, the never-ending cycle of it all, and Louis sighed beside him and Zayn had told him,

“It’s not bad.” But it was, it was, and Louis was far too quiet and Harry could not breathe at the thought of losing him now. 

But Louis took in a deep breath and his cheek was soft and hot as he pressed it to Harry’s chest, curling his body around Harry. “It’s okay,” he told Harry. “Really, it is.” 

“It’s not.”

“Don’t go wallowing now,” Louis snapped, and he dug his fingernails into Harry’s chest to remind him he was alive. 

“I’m not.”

“Then what are you doing?”

“I’m trying not to panic,” Harry said honestly. Because this was the end, The Troves were over, and what did he care what some shitty lowlife magazine thought of him, anyway? 

(He didn’t. He cared what they said about Louis.)

“I’m not scared of some goddamn shitty magazine,” Louis told him sternly. “Let the world think whatever they want.”

But Harry did not want them to; he wanted Louis all to himself, and he was sorrier than anything that he had let the world sink its claws into Louis in the first place. He had dragged him out onstage and he had caused the end, parading their love before a world that wanted nothing more than to rip it apart, a world that was going to chew them up and spit them out. He had done it and it was his fault the magazines and the fans and Michael Clifford had his name on their tongues. And he had to fix it. 

“We should call Soph,” he said. “Now.” He sat up and Louis sat with him, Louis protesting as Harry hopped out of bed and onto the floor to scramble for his phone.

“Why?” Louis asked.

“We’re going to make a statement,” he said, “you and me. Me and The Troves. And we’re going to make sure no one can write this bullshit anymore. We’re going to give them the truth.”

And Louis went quiet. “Oh, Haz,” he breathed, and Harry caught his phone up in his hand and plunked on the bed to search for Sophia’s number. 

“What?” he asked. 

He hovered his finger over the call button and he looked to Louis in the dark, his wide eyes illuminated by the sickly blue light of his phone screen. 

“You’re so goddamn brave.” And it was three in the morning, Harry having no goddamn clue what time it was wherever Sophia had gone, but she was damn good and she answered on the second ring.

“Haz,” she said into the phone, breathless. 

“Sophia,” he replied, “I want to tell the world the truth.” 

 

Six days and a team of people wearing black T-shirts clipping microphones to clothes later, Harry, Louis, and The Troves sat together in a radio station in New York City. Sophia buzzed around them, fixing their collars and mussing their hair despite their repeated protests that no one but the interviewer was going to see them. She shoved a cough drop into Harry’s mouth and he pretended to choke, earning a stern look that burned as she glared. And Harry had fucking missed her. He hated living without her, her snappy voice and sharp tongue what he needed to stay sane. And he had missed his band, all of them hugging desperately as if it had been months instead of less than a fortnight that they had been apart. They had not expected to see each other so soon, and Zayn raved about the name Trinity as Niall laughed at his side at his enthusiasm, his chin tipped to the ceiling as he chuckled. 

And the interviewer stepped into the room as Sophia told them they had two minutes to go before they went live to tell the world the story they had been keeping quiet for so long. 

“No swearing,” she warned them even as the interviewer, a woman with a kind, round face laughed and told them they could swear all they wanted. The interviewer shook their hands one by one, introducing herself and smiling bright. 

“I’m Caroline,” she told Harry, squeezing his hand and then Louis’s. “This is such a pleasure, I can’t believe you guys chose me.” And she fawned over them as she took her seat, slipping headphones over her ears, and she pressed buttons too fast for Harry’s eyes to follow as the seconds ticked down and Louis reached for Harry’s hand. 

“It’s okay,” Harry told him. Louis smiled, wan and timid, and Liam clapped Louis on the back from his other side. 

“We wouldn’t lie to you,” Liam told him. “It’s all good.” Sophia vanished from sight and she tugged at Harry’s hair on her way to her seat behind them, Harry slapping at her hand to try and make her laugh. The seconds ticked away and the interviewer, Caroline, counted them in as she pressed a big red button at her side.

“Good morning, New York City!” she crowed into the microphone inches from her face. “I’m thrilled to be here today with one of my personal favorite rock bands, The Troves, in their final interview. How are you boys today?” she asked.

When no one spoke Harry took the helm. (He was the goddamn front man, after all, destined to be center stage, and he could do this for them now even if it killed him.)

“We’re great,” he said around the cough drop casting menthol down his throat. “Really happy to be here.”

“We’re happy to have you!” Caroline said. “Listen, you’re here to put the truth out there after some pretty misinformed articles came to light. Is that right?”

“Absolutely,” Harry said. “We’re here to give our real answers, the shit you won’t see in magazines.” Sophia slapped him on the back of the head for swearing and he laughed, Liam snickering with him at his side. Caroline cracked a grin and she went on, speaking brightly to the thousands of people who listened. 

“Great,” she said. “Where would you like to start?” And she beamed, handing the reins over to Harry, and he gulped while he steadied himself to be the bearer of heartbreaking news. 

“Well,” he said, “we have to tell the truth. I want the fans to hear it from me, not some gossip site. But it’s too late for that, I guess. They got that part right. The Troves are over.” It hurt, it hurt, it hurt, but his best boys were at his side and this would not hurt for long. “We can’t even begin to tell you all how amazing it’s been, all these years, and we can never repay you all the love and support we’ve gotten that kept us going. But…” Louis leaned his head on Harry’s shoulder and the sweet scent of him helped Harry clear his throat and carry on. And it didn’t hurt so bad, not as bad as Harry thought, and he said, “It’s not always enough to save a sinking ship. That’s what we were for a long time, a sinking ship. We were fighting all the time, angry at each other and at ourselves, and it stopped being fun. At the end of the day we just wanted to still be friends when our time had come and gone. And we are. We did it. And we’re sorry we have to stop now, when we have it all, but we did the best we could. I think we did, anyway. And it wasn’t anyone’s fault that this is the end. I can promise that. I would never, ever give Michael Clifford the satisfaction of ending us.” 

And Caroline laughed and Harry’s heart soared, all of this far easier than he could have ever hoped. 

“Yeah,” Harry said, shrugging even though not one listener could see them. “That’s it, then. That’s it. Sometimes it’s just the end.” He bit at his lip as Caroline replied, every bone in his body easing as he released the fears and the worries that had gnawed at him for months. 

“Thank you,” Caroline said, “for all of that. I know I’m not the only one who appreciates a real goodbye.”

“No problem,” Harry said, and as Louis squeezed his thigh he waited for his frantically fluttering heart to slow. 

And the rest of the interview was easy. Caroline asked about Zayn’s daughter, the baby that had nothing to do with the demise of the band, and she asked about Niall and Liam and what they were doing with their free time. And they told her they were writing music of their own and Harry was glad, so glad he could burst, that the world was not going to lose the talent that was the duo of Niall and Liam. 

And Harry was shocked at the ease of it all. The interview ended just as all things did and Caroline thanked them over and over for giving her their last moments as a band. 

“It was our pleasure,” Sophia said as The Troves rose as one out of their seats and Caroline’s team took back their mics one by one. Sophia thanked her again for having them and they said their goodbyes, Harry feeling freer than he had in years. 

It was over. His conscience was clean. There didn’t have to be any more fighting, any more misery, and Harry all but danced for joy as The Troves, Sophia, and Louis stepped out into the bright spring morning. 

“Thank you for setting this up, Soph,” Harry said. 

“It was nothing,” she replied with a wave of her hand. “Anything for you.” And she laughed when Harry hugged her tight to his chest for the hundredth time. And this time when they parted ways it did not hurt as bad. Harry was getting used to temporary goodbyes and getting better at realizing he could survive being apart from his best boys. 

They said goodbye. They promised to keep in touch. And Louis and Harry made their way together back to their temporary home and collapsed into bed, warm and carefree and blissful in their love. Harry was free. Louis was at his side. And maybe that was how all of this was meant to go.


	25. Chapter 25

Spring carried on and Manhattan came alive, the warm air breathing new life into the city. With May came heat and the clattering of the air conditioning in the hotel room Harry and Louis had turned into a home, and the urge to leave began to itch at Harry’s mind. He wanted more than a temporary home and a life out of an overflowing duffel bag. He wanted a life with Louis, something permanent he could call his own, and he took Louis by the hand and asked him what he thought about finding an apartment in the city, somewhere they could live without housekeeping knocking at the door and somewhere they could cook in the kitchen and fill the freezer with more ice cream than they could stomach. And Louis grinned, holding Harry to his chest, and he told him, 

“I thought you would never ask.” 

The two of them left their hotel room to wander the city with a newspaper in Louis’s hand, available apartments circled in red marker. It was a long day of Louis shaking his head (he wanted something closer to Times Square, he wanted something with two bathrooms, he wanted something with granite countertops) and Harry wanting nothing more than for him to find something he loved, and by the time the sun began to sink in the sky Harry was tired enough to drop. They had one more place circled on the paper clutched in Louis’s fist and Louis swore it was the one, claiming all at once to be a big believer in fate and that the last apartment was meant for them. As the two of them climbed the stone steps of the building and pressed the buzzer to be let inside Louis glowed, craning his neck to get a good look at the building. 

“Come in!” a voice said as the door unlocked with a click. Louis nearly danced with delight as they stepped into the lobby; everything was decorated in shades of white and gold. It was beautiful, Harry had to admit, and he couldn’t help but laugh at Louis’s awe as he looked up at the sparkling, massive chandelier on the ceiling. 

“Your expensive side is showing,” Harry teased in his ear, pressing a kiss into Louis’s hair. And the landlord stepped out from the elevator on the other side of the front desk, clicking towards them in bright red Mary Jane shoes, and she held one hand out and then the other, shaking hands with both of them at once. 

“The available apartment is on the fifth and top floor,” she said, already walking away back towards the elevator. She gabbed about the apartment as they rode up, the look in Louis’s eyes telling Harry everything he needed to know. He wanted this place without even looking at it, smitten with the outside, the location, the lobby, and Harry was going to give it to him. He nearly tripped out of the elevator for staring at Louis as the woman led the way down the hall, her long blonde hair flying out behind her. She had obviously done this a thousand times before, all brisk business as she led them to the very end of the hall and popped the door to apartment 508 open. 

Again she gabbed on, waving her hands around as she showed off the granite island in the kitchen, the fully furnished living room with leather couches, the master bathroom with a jetted tub, and the bedroom with the massive bed right in the center. She pulled back the curtains to show Harry and Louis the view of Manhattan, the street below them and the skyscrapers of Times Square in the distance. And Louis squeezed Harry’s hand as if he was trying to send him a message in Morse code, Louis sold on the apartment the moment they had stepped inside. 

“What do you think?” the woman asked as she led them back into the miniature foyer. She crossed her arms and Louis glanced at Harry and Harry would have done anything to keep the look on Louis’s face right there shining bright forever.

“We’ll take it,” Harry said, and as Louis dropped his head onto Harry’s shoulder he couldn’t help but beam.

Louis and Harry did not have much but now they had a home.

 

After a whirlwind day of buying shower curtains, pots and pans, a coffeemaker, and more utensils and bowls and blankets and pillows than Harry thought they could ever use, Harry and Louis collapsed onto one of the leather sofas in the living room with a pint of peanut butter ice cream between them. And as Louis spooned swirls of peanut butter into his mouth Harry decided he had never felt so truly, madly, deeply in love than he did at just this moment. When Louis caught him staring he grinned, holding his spoon between his teeth, and he said, 

“What?” 

“I love you.”

“Why are you staring?”

_(Because I can’t believe you’re mine; I can’t believe you’re here.)_

“You’re drop dead sexy, babe,” he said. “I can’t help it.” He shrugged and Louis tried to hit him with one of the decorative pillows Louis had insisted on buying. Harry dodged it and it landed somewhere in the kitchen and as Louis grinned around the spoon between his lips Harry leaned in and pressed a kiss to his temple. Harry buried his nose in Louis’s hair and breathed in the sweet scent of him and the ease of every moment was never going to stop astounding him. 

“Marry me,” he said. 

“Any damn day of the week,” Louis replied. He licked his spoon clean and when he noticed the hungry way Harry stared he stuck his tongue out to lick his lips. “What?” he asked again, but he knew damn well what. Want pooled hot in Harry’s stomach and before Louis had time to toss the empty carton of ice cream to the floor Harry was on him, mouthing at his throat and groaning. And Louis was his, a lifetime of moments just like this one before him, and Harry wondered how many perfect moments one man could be gifted in one life. 

“Hazza,” Louis breathed beneath him on their couch, in their living room, in their home. “Harry, Harry.” And Harry pulled Louis into his arms and carried him to their bed, spilling him onto the pristine royal purple sheets, and Harry was going to make it his mission to christen the brand new sheets beneath his fiancé. Harry dropped Louis’s clothes to the floor faster than Louis could exhale his name in a string of expletives as Harry made sure he knew how drop dead gorgeous he was. 

“You’re so perfect,” he breathed. Louis gasped out loud when Harry pulled him to the edge of the bed, Harry kneeling on the floor between Louis’s knees, and Harry pressed wet kisses into Louis’s thighs and repeated a desperate prayer over and over in his head that sounded like something silly close to, _“Please, God, let him be mine forever.”_

“I’m perfect?” Louis asked as he arched his back into Harry’s touch. “Hell, you should meet my fiancé.” And he was amazing, the sun and the moon and each and every star in the sky, and Harry launched from where he crouched on the floor to pull Louis into his arms, Louis laughing in his ear. And together they fell into bed and they made it their own, they made it their home.

 

Each and every day went by faster than the last, May slipping away faster and faster every moment. Days were spent lounging in bed, tossing candy into each other’s mouths and laughing when they missed, and making love in every damn room of their apartment. Harry bent Louis over the kitchen counter and Louis propped Harry up on the bathroom sink, their neighbors next door banging periodically on the wall and Louis laughing sheepishly as they tried their best to keep it down. But Harry took pleasure in making Louis moan his name (the neighbors were going to know exactly who the hell lived next door: a man called _baby Hazza bee_ and another called _Lou, my Lou_ ) and hearing the pounding on the walls in reply. 

“They’re just so damn jealous,” Harry told Louis as he kissed him hard along his jaw. 

“Hardly,” Louis shot back, sarcastic even as his voice wavered from the heat of Harry deep inside him. He sat cradled in Harry’s lap as he rode him, the two of them bucking together on the cold leather sofa. And it was perfect, the sloppy way they kissed as Louis began to lose control. And Harry loved him, the man who gave him everything, and he was going to spend his life giving Louis everything and more. 

“Mmm,” Louis breathed all at once, arching his back and dropping his head forward onto Harry’s shoulder. “Right there,” he groaned as Harry squeezed his ass in both hands. “So…good.” He bit down hard on Harry’s shoulder as Harry let spill from him how goddamn much he loved him and he released as they came together, Harry’s world narrowing to white hot pleasure and to the scent of Louis’s skin. 

“I love you, I love you, I love you,” Louis moaned, glowing in the aftermath of an orgasm, and Harry kissed him and kissed him to tell him that he loved him, too.

 

Little moments turned into little days and as time went on and on around them Harry could have witnessed the world collapse outside his window without a care at all. And at four in the morning a warm night in the first week of June Harry’s phone rang, clattering on the bedside table, and he fumbled for it in the dark to see Zayn’s name on his screen.

“Hello?” he garbled as Louis began to stir beside him.

“She’s here,” Zayn breathed, breathless as he spoke. “My baby girl, she’s fucking here.” And he was crying happy tears as Harry congratulated him, sitting up in bed and listening to Zayn try to compose himself. 

“What’s her name?” Harry asked, and Zayn barked a strangled laugh and told him,

“Olivia,” and Harry laughed happily along with him. 

“I’ll be there,” Harry said. “Tomorrow. Today!” He was already standing up and Louis had to pull him down, pressing kisses into the back of his neck as Zayn tried to stop crying and say something coherent.

“She’s amazing, Haz,” he said. “You have no goddamn idea.”

“I’ll see her soon,” Harry assured him. And they said their temporary goodbyes and Harry hung up, tossing his phone onto the bed and dashing to the closet to pull down a duffel bag. 

“Right now?” Louis complained, smiling widely in the dark even as he whined. “But I’m sleepy...and warm…and sexy.” And he used the sheets to frame his perfect body, showing just enough skin to make Harry hot and bothered, but Harry was distracted by the thought of meeting Zayn’s daughter and holding her in his hands and he hardly saw Louis as he threw clothes into the overnight bag. 

“What do I have to do to get my dick sucked around here?” Louis teased, his voice sleepy and warm. He lolled in the bed and tossed the covers back to give Harry a full view of him. And as Harry tossed the bag full of clothes onto the bed Louis stroked his growing erection and shot Harry a devilish grin.

“Stop packing and fuck me,” Louis demanded, and the duffel bag hit the floor as Harry lunged for the drawer of the bedside table to fumble for a condom. “That’s my boy,” Louis cooed as Harry fell into him. He was so conceited, so stunning as he relaxed under Harry’s hands, and Harry was so goddamn smitten he could hardly breathe. 

“You’re beautiful,” Harry told him. “You’re so fucking beautiful.”

“And you’re a sucker,” Louis replied. And he was, just for Louis, and no matter how many times Harry made love to him it was just as goddamn perfect as the first. And they had a long drive ahead of them into Lake George but it did not matter for now, Harry groaning deep inside Louis and Louis moaning right back. The sun rose as they moved together in bed, the sky changing color from deep black to navy blue. And Louis was insatiable as he whined and writhed beautifully beneath Harry. He was perfect, he was warm, and the only thing that made Harry pull away was his phone vibrating under Louis’s back on the bed. Harry shoved Louis over to get to it, Louis rolling on top of him and latching onto his back and biting at his shoulders as he read the text Zayn had sent him. 

_She’s so beautiful, Haz. You have to come and meet her._

“Gotta go,” Harry said. The thought of losing the soft touch of Louis’s skin was almost too painful to endure even for a moment. Louis was so warm, the smell of him all over Harry, and he made a compelling argument for holding off for an hour or five. 

“I’m not done with you yet,” Louis protested in a lusty growl. He bit down hard on Harry’s earlobe and it hurt, a burning wave of want rolling through Harry’s chest, but they had a baby to meet and a new dawn to face. 

“I can fuck you all you want,” Harry said as he forced himself to rise on weak knees to get dressed, “the second we get back.”

“Fuck me?” Louis asked. He rolled over onto his back, his arms crossed behind his head, and Harry’s eyes wandered to the trail of dark hair on his stomach. “I’d rather fuck you,” he said. And maybe Harry was insatiable, too, the front of his jeans bulging the second he zipped them up, but he had Louis for a goddamn lifetime and he could have him at any time at all. 

(Still it was impossible to say no as he lounged stretched out like a cat in bed with one hand idly stroking his cock and the other twisting through his hair.)

“Later,” Harry said. “Later, hey.” But Louis lunged up and he pulled Harry to him by his belt loops and he growled, low and hot, and Harry could do nothing but fall into him. Louis picked up the condom Harry had dropped and he ripped it open with his teeth. 

“Stop staring at me and take your pants off,” Louis snapped, and Harry was quick to obey. His phone vibrated again but he ignored it, the same text flashing across the screen, and it clattered to the floor as he struggled out of his stupidly tight jeans. 

“Later,” Harry said to his phone, breathing hard. “Later, later.” And he collapsed back into Louis’s warm arms, his perfect, beautiful boy all whispered kisses and soft hands. 

“That’s right,” Louis cooed, nipping painfully at Harry’s throat. “Later, later.” He kissed his way down Harry’s chest, his lips rough and the stubble he had been growing on his face closer to a goddamn beard than five o’clock shadow, and Harry rolled his hips up into Louis’s warm body. Everything could wait. The goddamn world could wait. 

(Louis was the world and Harry was kidding no one by trying to pretend otherwise.)

“You’re so fucking hot, Haz,” Louis growled, his tongue dipping into Harry’s collarbone. “Fuck, I can’t believe you’re mine.” And Harry knew the feeling well, the hopeless feeling of putting everything he had into Louis’s hands. 

“Love you,” he managed to reply. He put everything he had into the two tiny little words and Louis got the message. 

“Fuck,” he breathed again, and all at once he took Harry by the hips and shoved him, rolling him to his stomach and kneading with rough hands at the knots in his back. Harry dropped his forehead to the mattress as from behind him Louis slid the condom on, and he waited, holding his breath, for the hot, hot feeling of feeling full. And there he was, his perfect boy, and Harry moaned, everything he had belonging to Louis. And Louis was his world, his everything, and it was a lifetime ago that Louis had found him alone in an alley and taken care of him like no one else could. And he did the same now, filling Harry up like no one else had before, and it was perfect, the mess of kisses Louis pressed along his spine and the sweat that pooled in the small of his back, and they rocked together in a rhythm that sounded an awful lot like _mine, mine, mine._

And Harry had a goddamn lifetime to make Louis his and he was reminded every time the ring on Louis’s finger touched icy on his skin. 

“Mine,” Louis growled in Harry’s ear. And Harry groaned as Louis fisted his hair, the two of them very, very much alive, and he replied with the only thing he had.

“Yours,” he agreed. “Yours.”

 

It was a long ride from Manhattan to Lake George. Harry and Louis hopped together on a train to Poughkeepsie, Louis’s cheeks still red and his eyes huge from the moments the two of them dragged out leaving the bed. They sat side by side with a paper cup of coffee between them, Louis yawning and smiling wide. Harry fussed with the paper in his hands, their tickets and the room number Zayn had given them. From Poughkeepsie they had to take another train to Albany and a cab from there to the hospital, Harry worrying endlessly about making the second train in time.

“It’ll be fine,” Louis said. “Don’t panic.” He kissed Harry’s cheek and he leaned away to watch the world whirl by out the window. Harry looked around him, past the halo of light illuminating his hair, and as New York City faded away he grew more and more blissfully excited. He wondered how Zayn felt, a father so goddamn young, and he wondered what the future held for him and for his daughter and for Perrie. And maybe they would be a family, living in Lake George just as Zayn had when he was young, and Harry and Louis would visit every goddamn Christmas with presents weighing them down. And Louis asked why Harry could not stop grinning and it was too hard to explain, the future so bright for the first time in his life that Harry could hardly see it.

He was a long way from the man who was convinced he would die at twenty-four. And maybe he would live to be ¬eighty¬¬-four, destined to live the rest of his life in awe in Louis’s arms. No matter his fate he was not scared anymore. He was not scared of anything, not of dying and not of relapsing, not of alcohol and not of what he was going to do with the life he had left after The Troves were dead and gone. And from time to time Louis glanced at Harry out of the corner of his eye and beamed each and every time he realized Harry could not wipe the smile from his face.

“You’re goddamn beautiful,” Louis told him, and when his lips found Harry’s he tasted like sugar and coffee and safety. He tasted like a lifetime, like forever. And without being prompted Harry leaned close, the heat of Louis all he needed to be brave.

“Marry me,” he said, and Louis told him,

“Any damn day of the week.” But he thought, looking down at his hands, and with a laugh he amended his statement. “Just not today,” he smiled. “You’ll steal the birthday girl’s thunder.” And Harry laughed with him, so fucking happy he had no idea where to put all the heat deep inside him, and if there was any possibility for a human to be so full of joy they could burst it was going to inevitably happen to Harry. 

(Harry Styles, the goddamn menace, finally deserved the happiness and the love that came his way. Didn’t he?)

And Harry sent a text to Zayn that he and Louis were on their way and Zayn replied quickly, Harry able to see the face Zayn had made while sending it without being anywhere near him.

_About time. Soph and the guys are on their way, too._

And a moment later a second text came through, one that dragged the air from Harry’s body, and he relaxed onto Louis’s shoulder filled with so much warmth he thought he could catch on fire.

_I can’t wait to see you._

Zayn loved him, he loved him, and Louis jostled Harry’s shoulder and told him just the same.

“You’re so loved, Harry Styles,” he said. 

“I know.” And Harry was not going to cry; he was simply choked up. He was not going to cry, surrounded by so much love, but he sure as hell wanted to as Louis wound one arm around his shoulders. It had taken him so long to realize and so long to figure out he was not nearly as despicable as he thought, but here he was with Louis at his side and with so many perfect, warm feelings that he would not have minded for a moment if the world ended around him. 

“But no one loves you as much as I do.” Louis kissed his cheek again and his lips lingered, warm and sweet. And the rest of the train ride flew by in silence. It was fine by Harry, the quiet easy, and when they stood to hop off the train and onto the next Harry’s bones creaked in protest. Louis yawned, his hand steadying Harry on the small of his back, and they collapsed into new seats facing backwards on the new train. The second train ride went faster than the first. Harry held his duffel bag in one hand and hailed a cab at the station with the other and Louis was so tired he could hardly keep his eyes open on the final stretch to the hospital and to Olivia Malik. At the hospital Harry sent Zayn another text telling him they had arrived and by the time Harry jostled Louis off his shoulder and made him climb out of the cab and out onto the sidewalk Sophia was bursting through the front door and racing towards them. 

“You’re here!” she cried as she threw her arms around the both of them at once so fast their heads crashed together. 

“Ouch!” Harry cried, and she hardly paused to apologize as Louis rubbed the lump forming on his temple from Harry’s head. 

“Sorry, sorry!” she gasped. “I came here as fast as I could and I can’t believe I beat you two! Niall and Liam are on their way and, God, Haz, she’s so beautiful. Come in, come in!” And she was her usual bustling self, taking hold of Harry by the hand, and he snatched Louis’s hand up just in time to keep from leaving him behind holding their bag on the sidewalk. Together they stepped into the cool air conditioned lobby from the bright and sunny morning and Sophia dragged them towards the elevators off to the right. 

“Just wait until you see,” she gushed. Pink spots on her face gave away her excitement and her joy just as much as her voice and Harry tried to bite down the excitement that could have burst from him at any moment. “Zayn has hardly stopped crying since I got here!” she cried as if she could not believe it. “I think he’s going to be a damn good father to that baby. He’s so in love, Harry, just wait until you see.”

The elevator pinged at the third floor and Sophia was off, leaving Harry and Louis to race to keep up with her. They dashed past room after room, the sound of babies crying and mothers cooing coming from open doors as they headed down the hall. 

“Okay, be quiet,” Sophia said as they nearly slammed into her outside the door to room 310, as if they had been making any noise at all. “You go first, he’s going to be so happy to see you.” She pushed Harry into the room and made room for Louis to stand at his side, and Harry heard his duffel bag hit the floor as Harry caught sight of his best friend in the world standing at the foot of Perrie’s bed. 

“Haz,” Zayn breathed the moment he stepped inside. “Haz, you made it.” He spoke in a hushed voice, his dark eyes rimmed in red, and Harry stood rooted to the spot at the threshold of the room. This was real; Zayn held his daughter in a blanket in his arms. This was real and Zayn looked as if the world was lifted from his shoulders. “Haz, come here.” And Harry obeyed, one foot in front of the other, and as he stepped close Zayn brushed back the blanket from his daughter’s face and let Harry get a glimpse of the tiny little person in his arms. 

And Sophia was right. She was beautiful, a picture perfect mixture of Zayn and of Perrie (she had Zayn’s complexion and Perrie’s dainty lips and nose and Harry was not going to cry). She was so damn small, Zayn beaming as he cradled her to his chest, and Harry’s heart swelled at the sight. 

“Oh, Zayn,” he said, and Zayn stepped so close Harry could see the tears clinging to his eyelashes. 

“Do you want to hold her?” Zayn asked as Perrie looked on with a tired smile on her face. 

“Yes.” He did, more than anything, and Zayn passed his daughter into Harry’s hands and stepped away. All at once nothing else mattered, the sounds of the hospital so far away Harry wondered if this tiny little girl in his hands made them cease to exist. He had never in his life held a baby, a tiny little human who was hot in his arms, and as he held her close to his chest he knew exactly why Zayn had been crying since the moment he laid eyes on her. And Harry listened as Zayn went to Perrie to fuss over her for a while, cooing as he brushed her hair back from her forehead, and then Louis was at Harry’s side with Olivia’s name on his lips. 

“She’s perfect,” Louis breathed over Harry’s shoulder. “God, Zayn, it’s a damn good thing she didn’t get your looks.” And Perrie laughed, a sharp, high sound that brought the world back as Harry stared into the tiny face before him, and Zayn laughed with her.

“Hey, now,” Zayn said. “She kind of did. Don’t you feel bad for her?”

“Sure do,” Louis teased. His chin was sharp on Harry’s shoulder but not for a moment did it bother him. He held Olivia to his chest with one hand and with the other he stroked his thumb along her tiny cheek. 

“Harry,” Zayn said from where he sat perched on the edge of Perrie’s bed. Harry tore his eyes from the miniscule little girl in his hands and he looked open mouthed up at Zayn. And Zayn beamed. “Harry, I want you to do me a favor,” he said, taking Perrie’s slender hand in both his own. Harry watched the way his hands enveloped hers and he thought of all the places his own hands had been and all the things they had done. But none of that mattered now, not the nickel bags he held in his fists and not the noses he broke with his knuckles. His hands cradled the tiniest person he had ever seen and looking down at her he wanted to give her the world.

“Anything,” he said, sounding breathless as he tried his best not to cry. 

“I want you to be her godfather, Haz,” Zayn said. Harry looked up so fast his head spun, nearly colliding again with Louis’s as he stared in disbelief at Zayn. 

“Me?” Harry breathed. He was not going to cry, he was not going to cry, but the lump in his throat was impossible to swallow as Zayn told him, 

“Yes, you. What do you say?”

“Yes,” Harry said before he had even finished asking. “God, yes.” He looked down at Olivia, tears blurring her tiny face, and by the time Zayn rose and wrapped one arm around Harry’s shoulders he was crying. He felt ridiculous, crying with a baby in his arms and Zayn and Louis flanking him, but he caught Perrie’s eye and the smile she flashed him made all the fear and all the doubt go away at once. 

“Thank you, Haz,” she said, voice soft. And Harry resisted for a moment when Zayn leaned over him to scoop his daughter back up into his hands, making Zayn chuckle. 

“Aww, Olivia,” Zayn cooed once Harry relented and let her slip from his hands. “Uncle Harry doesn’t wanna give you up!” Zayn beamed as Harry wiped tears from his eyes, not caring one bit that Zayn saw. 

“God,” Harry breathed because it was all that he could say. That they were here was remarkable, the four of them fawning over Zayn Malik’s daughter, and Harry would not have believed that this would come to be if a year ago someone had told him. And Zayn had hints of gray in the hair at his temples but they all had battle scars.

(Harry’s in the track marks in the crook of his elbow and Louis’s in the bruises Harry had left on his throat with his mouth.)

And somehow they had all made it out alive. They were safe, they were free, and Harry would never have believed it if three months ago someone had told him that this was how all of it was meant to go. Harry leaned on Zayn to touch his hand to Olivia’s, to his goddaughter’s, and she wrapped all her tiny fingers around one of his own and held on tight. 

“I love her,” Harry breathed, marveling at the strength of her tiny hands. 

“Tell her,” Zayn said. And Harry stroked her cheek with his finger and he told her,

“I love you.” Sophia choked in the corner and Louis went to comfort her as she began to unravel, her usual sweet and impossibly empathetic self. She loved him, she loved him, and she tried half-heartedly to shove Louis away as he hugged her. But she gave in, the two of them tangled together as they watched Harry fall in love with the tiniest girl in the world. And it was easy. It was beautiful. And if Harry could have bottled up the moment and worn it on a chain around his neck to keep from ever forgetting it, he would have. But Niall and Liam stepped as one into the room and they caught Harry with tears in his eyes, the two of them poking fun at him only for a moment as Zayn passed his daughter into their waiting hands. 

Harry collapsed into a plastic chair by Perrie’s bed and let Louis tumble into his lap to watch Niall and Liam, exhaustion overtaking him from the morning spent traveling. And Perrie’s voice was small as she reached out to Harry with one slender hand to get his attention. 

“I’m proud of you,” was all she said, and Harry had no idea what she was talking about until she gathered in a breath and went on. “When Zayn sent me home from London,” she said, “you were a different person. So was I, but I can’t even look at you now and remember the man you were there.”

Whether it was a compliment or a simple observation Harry had no idea, but he thanked her just the same. 

“You look good, Harry,” she finished, and he did not hesitate to make her laugh by saying,

“You, too.”

“I look like hell,” she scoffed as she pulled her long hair back into a messy ponytail. 

“You look like you just brought a new life into the world,” Harry corrected her. She rolled her eyes, the same young girl Harry had met outside a concert hall, but now she was so much more. She was bright and she was happy, and whatever she was to Zayn she made him happy, too. And she was the mother of a tiny baby, of Harry’s goddaughter, and the responsibility was something that would have scared the life out of the man Harry used to be. But time made him a better man and so did the man sitting in his lap, and he was fine. He was fine; he was better than fine. He was amazing, the world shifting all around him and leaving him to keep up or die trying. 

And with all he was worth he was going to try.

Later, Niall and Liam and Harry and Louis left the tiny family with Sophia in their hospital room to head out to some dimly lit pizza place in the center of Lake George’s village to drink and eat and catch up. Niall and Liam had been writing music together and Niall was nearly too shy to show Harry his song lyrics he had written on his phone. After his second beer Liam was able to convince him and he ran for the bathroom to hide as Harry read the lyrics on the screen. And it was good, Harry teasing Niall for hiding when he came back. Niall was far more talented than he thought he was (Harry had been the same goddamn way and he knew the feeling) and he waved away Harry’s compliments, saying silly things like, 

“I’m not nearly as good as you.” Harry assured him he was great and he was proud of them, so goddamn proud he could hardly put it into words. He felt he was on the verge of crying all the time, choked up on the pride he felt in his best friends in the world, wanting to shed tears in the best way. But he didn’t, surviving dinner and beers with Louis moving from his own seat to sprawl in Harry’s lap and getting closer the more he drank. 

“We’re thinking of calling George,” Niall said, “and forming a real band. I didn’t want to tell you at first but…” He shrugged and Liam punched him on the arm for spilling what was going to be a secret, but Harry was okay. He was fine. He was happy for them, blissfully so, and he told them over and over how much he approved.

“It won’t be the same without you,” Liam assured him. And Harry was all right; he was more than all right. They looked at him like they were afraid he could break but he was not going to. Not now. They deserved to move on and they deserved happiness however they found it. 

“The fans are going to miss you,” Niall agreed.

“Hell, even we’re gonna miss you!” Liam added. And maybe Harry was a little bit closer to drunk than sober and maybe in the morning he was going to mourn the band moving on without him. But for now he was warm and for now he cheered them on, clanking glasses with them and giving them his blessing. 

But Niall grew serious and he looked Harry hard in the eye. And Harry knew what was coming and even drunk as he was it took all the courage he had to keep from bolting without looking back.

“Harry,” he said. He leaned across the table and he squeezed Harry’s arm, not letting Harry look away for a second. “Harry, are you sure you don’t want to join us? We’ve talked about it so much, Haz, exhausting every conversation, and we want you with us. You’re our front man, Haz. And our best friend. Will you at least give it a thought?”

And Harry was tired and Harry was drunk but he shook his head and let Niall’s hopeful smile fall. “You can do this without me,” he said. He had grown up, he had grown away, and maybe he was born to be in the spotlight but it was not the life he wanted anymore. He wanted his apartment with Louis and he wanted quiet and he wanted security that life on the road could never give him. And it hurt, giving it up for the final time, but Niall and Liam were good, so damn good, and even as they frowned he knew they understood.

(They had played sold out shows in countries far away. They had stayed up all night with cocaine under their noses and fresh tattoos peeling on their skin. They had ended shows by racing to the hospital for stitches after falling offstage or breaking noses on amps. They had done everything there was to do and it was almost easy, almost sweet, to tell them for the last time he was done.)

“You guys are going to be amazing,” Harry said. “And I promise to be in the front row cheering you on every time you come to New York City.”

“But,” Niall grumbled, waiting for the inevitable end. 

“I’m sorry,” Harry said, and Niall dropped his head onto Liam’s shoulder as the two of them sighed.

“It’s okay,” Liam said. He tried to smile, bright and warm, but there was always a but and Harry could see the sadness in his dark eyes. 

“You’re going to be amazing,” Harry said again, Louis’s hands curling into the hair he had spent the past two months growing long again just for him. 

“Not so much without you,” Niall said. And Harry was not going to cry but the lump in his throat was growing bigger all the time. 

“Hey,” Harry said. “Just promise me you’ll come up with a better band name than Pilot’s Poison, all right?” And Niall and Liam barked painful sounding laughs, the two of them closer to tears than Harry had thought. But not one of them cried, not one of them gave in, and they left the building as one and stood in a quiet ring in the parking lot. And it was time for goodbye, time for _see you later_ , and Harry was all right. He was fine. He gave Niall and Liam the tightest hugs he could muster, Louis so tiny in their arms as they hugged him, too, and Louis hailed a cab back to the hospital where they had left their duffel bag. By the time they reached their hotel room in the outskirts of town Harry was dead on his feet, the weight of the day making his knees weak. 

He let Louis untie his Chucks and throw them into the corner of the room and he let Louis unbuckle his belt and let it clatter to the carpet. And he let Louis slide off his jeans and his underwear and kneel before him on the hotel floor. And Harry was damn used to temporary homes and temporary hellos but he never got used to the pain of always running, on the move. He had made the right choice tonight and he damn well knew it, the life he used to lead looking glamorous as it stood flashing in the past, but it was not the life Harry was made for anymore. He was made for fisting Louis’s hair in both hands as Louis, his fiancé, kissed him on the insides of his thighs, murmuring,

“I love you,” over and over again. He was made for falling into bed and watching shitty late night TV, Louis cradled to his chest as he pulled with a devilish grin at the hair on Harry’s chest. 

“Quit it,” Harry said, slapping Louis’s hand as if he minded at all. In reply Louis pulled harder, twisting his fingers, and Harry arched his back at the pain. He rolled over, pinning Louis to the bed so fast he had no time to cry out in protest, and as he looked down at his beautiful boy he felt the world fade away. 

“I fucking love you,” he said. And Louis grinned crookedly, cocky and gorgeous as he replied.

“Yeah? And I love fucking you.” No matter how many times he teased Harry he always laughed as if it was the first, his face twisting up as he choked on his own laughter. “Love you, love you,” he said, changing his tune the moment Harry began tickling him.

“I love you!” Louis cried as he pushed Harry’s hands off him. 

And Harry leaned in close and he said, “And I love you.”

 

The summer rose warm in Manhattan and June was quick to fade into July. Harry and Louis snuck up to the roof of their apartment building and set up a blanket to watch the fireworks all around them, coming from parks and rooftops on all sides. They shared a bottle of champagne between them, the bubbles tickling Harry’s throat all the way down. And he sat behind Louis, his arms wrapped around his best boy, and Louis leaned into him and purred happily when Harry rested his chin on the top of Louis’s head. 

It was a cloudless night, warm and dry, and as the moon rose and the fireworks exploded in shades of yellow, red, and blue, Harry felt the happiest he had ever felt. Over and over he got the feeling, the moment of realization that nothing could be better than that moment. And over and over he was proven wrong when something bigger and better came along. 

Niall had sent Harry a song the week before, a song he and Liam and George had finished together. It was amazing, a sort of companion song to all the songs Harry had written before, and Niall had nearly cried when Harry told him it was perfect. They were going to go on tour, he said, at the very end of summer, and Sophia had agreed without hesitation to be their manager all over again. After all the talk of quitting, after all the talk of not being able to hold out for the end, The Troves were in too deep into this life after all. Harry watched as they succumbed to the draw of the tour bus and as they told him how damn much they missed him. 

But he had never been happier than right here, exactly where he sat with Louis in his arms. He told them he was sorry and he told them they were going to be great and he told them over and over that he was fine, he was fine, he was fine. And New York City was alive with fireworks across the sky from every goddamn side and Louis was so warm in Harry’s arms he wondered how he ever lived without him. And he was never going to live without him again. It was easy to take in a breath and it was easy to let it go, and it was even easier to ask Louis for the thousandth time to be his husband. 

And somehow Louis knew this time was different. “When?” he asked instead of his usual teasing reply. 

“The day we met,” Harry replied, the date foggy in his head as he grappled for it deep in his memory. 

“Yeah?” Louis asked. “When was that?”

“September,” Harry told him. “The end of September. Don’t you remember?”

“Yeah,” Louis said after spending a long moment playing with a hole in the knee of Harry’s jeans. “Yeah, I remember.” 

“What do you say?”

“You know what I say,” Louis replied.

“Say it again.”

“Yes,” Louis said. “Yes, Harry, I’d marry you any goddamn day of the week.” And he groaned in protest as Harry shifted behind him to pull his phone from his pocket, opening up the calendar and skimming to September.

“September 26th,” he said. “Saturday. Good?”

“Yeah,” Louis said after a moment. “Good.” And it was real, the days ticking by now to a real day, a real date, and Harry could have wept with joy. 

“I love you,” Louis said. “I’ve been ready to be Louis Styles-Tomlinson for a long goddamn time.” And it didn’t matter that they lay together on a rooftop for the world to see and it didn’t matter that the landlord had a key and could come bursting through the door they had propped open with a sock at any moment. It didn’t matter. Louis pinned Harry to the cold concrete of the roof, the material biting into his skin, but it didn’t hurt nearly as much as the thought that in another life Harry could have lost him.

“I love you,” Harry told him as together they rocked to the rhythm of the fireworks bursting in the illuminated sky. 

“I love you,” Louis said, breathing simple words that meant nothing simple at all. Harry kissed Louis, his perfect boy, and Louis kissed him back with passion that could have ignited the yellow moon hanging high in the sky. And they had a wedding date, a concrete day they had all to themselves, and as they kissed under the stars Harry thought with never ending awe that he had everything he wanted just beneath his hands.

 

August was a whirlwind. Louis and Harry sent out wedding invitations despite the miniscule guest list and one by one the cards came back with the HAPPILY ACCEPT box ticked off. The Troves, George, Sophia and the roadies were the only people on the list but that did not matter at all to Harry and did not matter at all to Louis. They returned to the little flower shop Harry had bought Louis carnations from and the woman working there was thrilled to have them back. They planned decorations for the church pews, Louis dead set on getting married inside a church above all things. Harry accepted it, watching Louis fawn over white roses and red carnations and baby’s breath as he stood by and offered his opinion whenever it was asked. 

He did not care one bit about the flowers; all he cared about was his groom and how it would feel to watch him walk down the aisle. He cared even less about the reception, the champagne and the cake and the music, and he let Louis take the helm. Louis reveled in it, picking out a beautiful cake from the bakery just down the block from their apartment, and as the days ticked by the excitement made Louis’s eyes wider and wider.

“Good morning,” he said, waking Harry at dawn one morning in mid-August. “Forty days to go.” And he tasted sweet as Harry kissed him, making him laugh with rough kisses and searching hands. 

“Forty days left until I get to call you my husband,” Harry replied, and the word made Louis go wild. He loved it, the thought of being Harry’s husband making him come alive, and they kissed the dawn away and only rose to make their appointment with the reception hall’s director. They had a lot to do and only forty days left in which to do it all, but Harry could not have been happier as they walked arm in arm to the hall by the church. 

It was beautiful, the speed at which the days passed them by, and Harry felt he had waited his whole life to be Louis Tomlinson’s husband. But he had waited so damn long; what was another forty days in the span of a lifetime?

 

Harry got the phone call from Niall with mere hours to go that the brand new band they had formed were playing a show in Manhattan. He shied away from Harry’s questions on what the band was called; he only laughed and told Harry he would have tickets waiting for him and for Louis at the door. 

“Will you be there?” he asked, breathless. 

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world.” And they hung up and Harry looked at Louis, who had been standing at his side waiting to hear what the phone call was about. 

“Niall,” he said, breathless. “They’re playing a show. Tonight.”

“Oh, wow,” Louis breathed. Harry felt much the same. “Are we going?”

“Yes!” Harry cried. “Yes, we’re going!” It took Harry an hour to decide what to wear, Louis fussing over him and telling him he looked fine whatever he chose. He slipped aviator sunglasses on and was scared out of his mind to tell Louis why; admitting his fear would make it real. He zipped up the leather jacket he had not worn all summer and Louis watched him as he laced up his sneakers.

“What is it?” Louis asked. He could not see Harry’s eyes through the sunglasses, the dark making it hard for Harry to see, and he looked worried and anxious as he messed with his own clothes, shirtless in the walk in closet. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s my band, Lou,” Harry said as if it was obvious. But it wasn’t, he knew that, and sometimes even now he could still wear a touch of cruelty like the ring on his finger and he could be damn mean if he wanted to. He was scared to tell Louis and it was a selfish thing to do, Louis shaking his head and diving into a pile of T-shirts on the floor. 

“Where’s my Rolling Stones shirt?” Louis asked, and the pain in Harry’s stomach got exponentially worse. 

“Please don’t wear that,” he said, and Louis jerked his head up to stare at him.

“Why not?”

(It was too much; it reminded Harry painfully of when he had left Louis behind.)

“You should wear this one.” And Harry tossed him a baby blue button down shirt that looked amazing on him, Louis usually wearing it with the top button undone to give Harry a view of his chest that always made Harry hungry for his skin.

“All right.” Louis shrugged into it and began to fumble with the buttons, clearly troubled at whatever it was Harry was choosing to hide. 

“Let me help.” 

“No, I’ve got it…oh, all right.” Louis dropped his hands and Harry did up the buttons as Louis watched his hands. “What is it, Haz?” Louis asked again, catching Harry’s hands as he tried to pull away. “What are you scared of?” 

“It’s my band, Lou,” Harry said again. Louis reached for his sunglasses, trying to see Harry where he hid behind them, but Harry pulled away. He left Louis looking bewildered and sad and it hurt, pain Harry had not felt in months burying talons deep into his chest. 

“They’re my fans,” he tried. “The people who are going to be at the show. They know me and they are going to see me and I don’t know how to handle being asked over and over why I’m not up there with them.” And all at once Louis’s face softened, understanding dawning in his eyes, and he frowned as he reached out for Harry and pulled him, stumbling, in close by his hips. 

“Oh, baby,” he breathed, pain knitting his eyebrows together as he stood on his toes to press his forehead to Harry’s. “Oh, baby, after all this time you’re still scared of them?” And Harry choked on the,

“Yes,” that passed his lips and the frown on Louis’s perfect face deepened. 

“Don’t be scared,” he said as if it was that easy. “Baby, they can’t hurt you. They loved you. They love you.”

“I know.”

“Do you want to stay here tonight?” Louis offered. It was tempting, the thought of staying home and passing the night away making love in their bed almost overwhelming. But Harry Styles was no coward, not anymore, and he owed it to the best friends he ever had to cheer them on just as he promised.

“We’re going to be late,” Harry said in reply, and Louis caught him by the wrist as he turned to leave the apartment.

“Don’t walk away from me,” Louis ordered. Puzzled, Harry turned around to see Louis staring at him sternly, brow furrowed. “Harry, next time you’re afraid I need you to tell me. We’re a team from here on out, you and me, and I can’t be married to a man who doesn’t see us as one.” And he was serious, solemnity darkening his face, and as hard as it was Harry nodded. For Louis he could have moved the goddamn stars; letting him in to the mess that was his scattered brain seemed like nothing in comparison.

“I’m sorry,” he said as Louis wound one arm around his waist and pulled him close. “You’re right.”

“I know,” Louis replied. They danced a slow dance in the middle of their apartment, Louis with his head on Harry’s shoulder, and Harry smiled as he asked him, 

“Practicing for our wedding?”

“Yeah,” Louis said. “I’m practicing guiding you because you can’t dance for shit. Rock stars!” He pretended to groan in disgust as he raised his arm to spin Harry, twirling him back into his arms in the kitchen. “I love you,” he said, and Harry laughed to the ceiling as Louis dipped him to the floor. 

“I love you, too,” he said, dizzy from all the spinning and the blood rushing in his head. “Let’s get out of here.”

“It’s a date,” Louis replied, and together they headed out from the apartment and back into the world they had long ago left behind.

It was a long walk to the venue, thirty blocks from their apartment, but they were early just the same. And Harry tightened his death grip on Louis’s hand the closer they got; he could see the crowd already waiting outside despite the fact that there were still four hours to go before the show. 

“Fuck,” he breathed. “Fuck, I can’t do this.” He tried to tug away but Louis held firm, still Harry’s tether even after all of his relentless pulling. 

“You can. Baby, they’re not even looking at you. It’s okay. Come on.” Louis pulled and Harry followed and the closer they got the faster Harry’s heart raced. He was going to die in the middle of the sidewalk, buried alive by questioning eyes. He couldn’t do this. There was no way in hell he was really going to go through with this.

“Let’s go home,” Harry suggested with their last chance at speaking out of earshot of the waiting crowd. “Let’s go home and fuck in the kitchen until the neighbors knock down our door.” 

“Tempting,” Louis said. “But we have a show to see.” And Harry felt stupid wearing sunglasses in the dark, tripping over his own shoes, but they were upon the crowd and the crowd began to look at him. He was hiding but Louis was not and how could he not have thought of that? They knew Louis, they knew him, and the moment one girl cried Louis’s name it was over.

“Oh my God!” someone in the crowd cried, and one by one all eyes turned to Harry and to Louis. 

“You’re okay,” Louis told him as fans began to burst from the line to Louis, telling him they were so happy to meet him, and it was not long before someone took a closer look at the man holding Louis’s hand. 

“Harry!” they cried. And his name rippled through the crowd and it was fucking over. They dashed to him and maybe three months ago he would have reveled in the attention, in the outpouring of love, but he was a different man and months out of the spotlight had weakened his resolve. And his knees all but buckled as they piled towards him, the reach of hands and voices so familiar. 

“Hey now,” Louis said as the fans grew tighter around Harry. (They were going to strangle him and he held his breath just as long as he squeezed Louis’s hand.) “You’re not here to see Harry, now are you?” He teased them, the fans with their jaws hanging open at the sight of Harry, and he really could not blame them. To them, Harry Styles had vanished off the face of the earth. He had stepped offstage at Madison Square Garden and had all but gone missing. He understood the desire to touch him, to hear his voice, but Harry was a coward and he hid behind his aviators and let Louis do the talking.

“We have some friends to catch up with,” Louis tried as he began to weave Harry through the crowd by his hand. And maybe a few months ago Harry would have promised them he would return after the show to speak to them and take pictures. But all he could do was let Louis drag him into the building and out of sight as the crowd began to cry out at the loss of him.

“You’re okay,” Louis told him again. “I promise.” And he knew that; Louis protected him. But still he shook as he shoved his sunglasses off his face, brushing his hair back and leaving them perched at the top of his head. They wound their way past the stand selling T-shirts and buttons and posters, and for the first time Harry caught a glimpse of the band The Troves had become. Louis jerked back as Harry clutched his hand and together they looked up at the T-shirts bearing the brand new band name: George and the Atoms. And Harry had to laugh, Niall and Liam never willing to be the center of attention; some things never changed. Louis grinned as they made their way backstage where they could hear the band doing their sound check, and the moment they stepped backstage it was as if nothing had changed at all. Nick and Eleanor whirled about the stage with set lists and wires in their fists, tripping over one another as they worked. Sophia fiddled with George’s hair and his earpiece, giving him the same lecture Harry had heard a hundred times before about cutting his hair. 

And Niall and Liam stood together in the center of the stage, looking out into the empty room. Harry had done the same thing more times than he could have counted if he tried. They looked at him together as he and Louis emerged from the shadows, and they shouted and beamed as if Harry was the man they all had been waiting for.

“The men of the hour!” Niall cried, throwing his arms out with his perfect Niall grin on his face. 

“How’s the lovely couple?” Liam teased, and the four of them turned into a haze of sharp elbows and warm arms as Niall and Liam wrapped up Harry and Louis in a hug. Harry choked on Niall’s hair in his face and they pulled away laughing, Niall mussing Harry’s hair and telling him how damn happy he was that Harry came.

“How do you like the new name?” Niall asked. 

“It’s stupid,” Harry joked, and the way he laughed gave Harry fucking butterflies; he was so happy Harry couldn’t help but laugh with him.

“I know!” he said. “But you have to admit it’s fucking awesome, man.”

“So awesome,” Harry agreed. 

“Are you ready to see a real rock show?” Liam asked as George sauntered over to where they stood. 

“It’s fucking good to see you two,” George said as he grinned, bright and warm as always. “I’m so scared I think I might throw up.”

“Don’t,” Harry said even as Niall grimaced at George’s throwaway words over his head. “It’s not good for your throat, kid.” George beamed and so did Harry and for the next few hours all Harry did was stand front row center at the barricade and watch George and the Atoms prepare for their first ever show.

“I think you’re going to love our sound,” George said as the front doors opened and the crowd began to pour inside, forcing George and his Atoms to hide backstage as they filtered in. 

“Yeah, this kid is a natural front man,” Liam winked, and Harry and Louis huddled close to the cold metal of the barricade as the fans crowded them and forced them to move in tighter. And Harry was relieved beyond measure when not one person at his side in the crowd saw him; they had eyes only for the stage bearing the brand new band’s name. It was short notice, this show, and Harry was overwhelmed all at once by the resilience of the fans who had loved The Troves. And he was sorry for letting them down, scaring them to death as he vanished, but he had a feeling this band was going to be more than enough to make up for his absence. 

After tonight the world was not going to miss Harry Styles at all.

(And fuck it all; one year ago to this day the thought would have caused Harry enough panic and enough fear to make him try and drink himself to a slow and painful death in the tour bus. But he was fine; he was better than fine. And it didn’t matter anymore to him at all if the world began to forget him. He had done his piece and he had had his time and as long as Louis and as long as The Troves did not forget him for a minute then nothing else mattered at all.)

Nothing else mattered at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come to me on tumblr @ourl0veisgod with anything! There's only one chapter left and I can't believe it. Thank you, thank you, thank you to everyone who is still with me and everyone whose comments light up my days. :)


	26. Chapter 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well...this is it. Immeasurable thanks to all my readers and everyone who loves this story as much as I do. Special thanks goes to Alex (fricktorfuentes on tumblr!!!!), without whom I would have quit halfway through and never seen this through to the end. It's been fun. I hope you've all enjoyed the ride. All the love :)

The moment the lights went down and George and the Atoms took the stage Harry understood the way his fans had felt for years. George was so goddamn charismatic Harry felt the same urge the rest of the crowd felt, the irresistible urge to reach out for him. And just like Niall and Liam he was better than he let on, playing his guitar and singing his heart out like Harry used to be able to. And the songs they played were _good_ , Niall and Liam experts at what they did, and Harry caught Sophia’s eye from where she stood backstage and she winked in his direction.

“Aren’t they incredible?” her gesture seemed to say, and Harry nodded her way until she beamed. There she was, still his best girl after all this time, and Harry turned his eyes back to George as he leapt up onto his amp. He had learned from Harry the way to take a crowd and shape it in his hands, and he was amazing at what he did. Harry had warned him, Harry had told him that this life could chew him up and spit him out and chew him up again, but maybe this time he was wrong. The fans along with Harry knew not one of the songs, the show and the album they played front to back a surprise to them all, and Harry knew the CDs they sold at the merchandise stand were going to fly off the goddamn table. 

And Harry was so proud of them he could burst. With one hand he struggled to get his phone from his pocket as sweaty kids who used to clamor for him pressed against his back. And he called Zayn, his best friend so far away, and as George and the Atoms played their last song Harry waited for Zayn to pick up the phone and listen to exactly what he was missing. He watched his screen until Zayn picked up and then he held his phone out, George grinning and leaning closer to sing inches from Harry’s screen, and all at once he felt the crowd push towards him as more and more of the kids in the audience realized exactly who stood front row center. 

Harry could not hear Zayn over the music but he knew Zayn was listening on the other line, Harry imagining him putting the phone on speaker and letting his baby daughter listen to the music that brought her into this world. It was the music that was the blood in Harry’s veins and he damn well knew it was true for Zayn too, and he hoped hearing it all over the phone was going to be good for Zayn rather than make him lonely and sad. But he knew Zayn better than almost anyone and he knew Zayn was grinning on the other line. And as the song ended and the crowd roared Harry stowed his phone away in the breast pocket of Louis’s shirt and screamed his head off with the best of them. 

These were his best boys, after all, and he owed them the world. 

“Thank you,” George said, catching Harry’s eye and winking as Harry passed on the same thing he used to always tell the crowd every goddamn night. “We love you. Goodnight!” And George and the Atoms left the stage and all at once the pressure at Harry’s back eased as the audience began to back away. The room buzzed with sound and Harry’s ears ached from the bass of the speaker close to his head but what did a little headache matter anyway? His boys were amazing, George so far from the way Harry had been show after show that Harry thought it wild George had ever listened to Harry’s advice at all. Harry had been a wreck from the start but he should have been able to tell George was different. 

Harry and Louis waited at the barricade for the last of the fans to back away, people wanting to talk to Harry, to touch him, but Louis turned them away as gently as he could. And Harry wanted to go out there and tell them all how goddamn sorry he was but he had not made up his mind yet whether he was brave enough to face them or not. And as the fans milled around the stand selling music and T-shirts Nick appeared back onstage and he held one hand out to help Harry climb up over the barricade.

“Get up here, you fucking menace,” he said, and the affection filling his voice was enough to make the jab sting instead of ache. He helped Louis up next, the two of them nearly falling, and Nick slapped one hand on Harry’s back before pulling away and pulling a face.

“You’re fucking gross, dude,” he said, wiping sweat off on his jeans, and Harry did not hesitate to tell him,

“I love you, too.” And Nick told him to fuck off but he did not mean it at all, Eleanor joining them to tell Harry, 

“I like your hair better long.”

“Me too,” he sheepishly replied as Louis laughed at his side. And it was easier to be on the outside than Harry expected, all the people who loved him the most just the same as they had always been. They had not changed a bit but for the better, all of them all smiles and warmth and kind words as they tore down the stage piece by piece. 

“What do you say, Haz?” Nick asked as he handed Harry one of the set lists from off the stage floor. “Want to come out with us for drinks tonight? It’s on you!” And Harry laughed and told him he would love to, the thought of spending the night with nearly everyone who mattered to him too tempting to pass up. Harry rolled and unrolled the set list in his hands as he watched Nick and Eleanor finish with the stage and turn the lights off. 

“What do you think?” Louis asked Harry as Nick and Eleanor headed outside towards George and the Atom’s brand new tour bus that idled at the curb outside. 

“About what?” Harry asked.

“Are we going out there?” And Harry looked at Louis and the longer he looked the more he began to remember that he could be brave if he wanted to be. Louis gave him comfort and Louis made him strong, and he could do this. He jerked his chin down so his sunglasses tumbled off his head and landed on his nose and he pushed them up with one finger as Louis began to laugh.

“Yeah,” he said. “Let’s go out there.” They made their way outside and Harry tried to be small, standing behind Louis with their fingers laced together. But they saw him, they always did, and he would have felt guilty at stealing George’s thunder if George looked anything but positively thrilled to be sharing center stage with Harry fucking Styles. 

“Where have you been, Harry?” the fans wanted to know, and it was almost too easy to push the focus off of him and onto the man who deserved it.

“I’ve been sitting back and watching this kid do a better job than I ever could!” he replied, and George blushed crimson and tripped over his words as he tried to deny Harry’s.

“Never!” he insisted, the fans laughing and assuring him he was amazing out there. 

“Isn’t he amazing?” Harry asked, and the fans went wild as Harry dragged him close and kissed him hard on the cheek. Impossibly George blushed deeper as Louis feigned shock and anger, dragging Harry back to his side and nipping possessively at his throat. 

“Mine,” Louis growled as the attention shifted from Harry to the wildly blushing George. 

“Yours,” Harry agreed. And Louis kissed him behind the ear and held him tight around the waist, dropping his chin onto Harry’s shoulder as they watched one half of the former Troves interact and smile with the same fans that had been loyal to a fault to them for so many years. They were amazing, Harry’s boys, and he could not wipe the grin from his face even as he tried. Louis was sweaty pressed up against Harry’s back and they stood together, just barely swaying in the warm night, and they watched the Atoms take pictures with the crowd.

And Harry was more than happy to be forgotten for the time being. He stood with Louis’s hands on his hips and the warm breeze ruffling his sweaty hair and he didn’t care that long ago his chapter in this life ended. He had everything he wanted in the new life, everything he would have killed for a year ago to this day. He had more love than he could keep inside his body, his heart threatening to leap from his chest with joy, and he was warm and he was cradled to his best boy and it was easy to fade into the shadows. And maybe Harry Styles would be a footnote some day when he was old and gray in the story of George and the Atoms as they entered the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. Maybe his name would fade into the memory of the world all at once and maybe he was meant to die onstage. 

(He left his soul at Madison Square Garden, tucked into center stage.)

But he was okay. This was all right. And finally the crowd began to thin and he pulled from Louis’s hands to join his (former) bandmates on their tour bus. This one was much the same as the others, George and the Atoms and Sophia and the roadies sprawled on sofas in the living area, and Harry felt a painful lurch as he remembered all that he had done that he missed on the tour bus The Troves lived inside. But it was fine, he was okay, and he accepted the cold beer pressed into his hand as he tumbled to the couch and pulled Louis into his lap. 

“Incredible!” Sophia cried, speaking in disjointed sentences as she made herself a cup of tea with shaky hands. “All of you, Jesus! So good.” She had missed this, the chaos of it all, and despite everything she had said to Harry in the past year about leaving this behind it was plain to see in her eyes how happy this life made her. “Perfect,” she said, the squeeze bottle of honey in her hands wheezing as she squeezed the last of it into her mug. 

“You really were,” Louis agreed with a grin on his face. “Your songs are amazing. I mean that. Amazing.” And George blushed and Niall and Liam thanked him over and over, thrilled nearly to tears that Harry loved them even after all this time. And Harry had a text in his phone that Harry showed to George and the Atoms, all of them grinning from ear to ear at what Zayn had sent:

_Incredible._

“God,” Niall said, beatific as he beamed. 

“God,” Liam agreed. They were so happy they could burst at the seams and as Louis pulled at Harry’s hair and teased him mercilessly with the way he sat in his lap Harry thought he could have burst, too. Harry was blessed with this life and it was about time he realized the truth. He was the luckiest man alive. And he raised his beer in one hand and he cried out to the bus and all eyes fell on him.

“To us,” he said, a simple thing that meant nothing simple at all. No small and simple things were really all that small and simple, after all, and one by one his bandmates and his friends echoed the sentiment. “To you,” he added, “and a new beginning.” 

And they cheered, each and every one of them, and never in his life had Harry felt as warm as he did in this moment. He was okay. He was far better than okay. And as he sipped his beer and toasted to a long and happy life of the brand new band his own life had helped create and shape, he leaned into the love of his life and let the cheers of his friends wash over him. 

And maybe that was how all of this was meant to go.

 

On a hot, rainy evening in late August Zayn called Harry, breathless, to invite them to a celebration thrown by Perrie’s family the next day.

“It’s for Olivia,” he said, “For Pez’s family that hasn’t met her yet.” He asked for moral support, apologizing for the need for formal wear, but Harry accepted the invitation and promised to ease Zayn’s panic at the thought of spending time with Perrie’s extended family. In the morning Harry and Louis got ready in their apartment, Louis undoing the progress Harry made getting dressed as he ripped off Harry’s brand new tie and used it to bind his arms over his head to the headboard of their bed. 

“We’re going to be late,” Harry half-heartedly protested, Louis grinning as he kissed and nipped his way up Harry’s body, unbuttoning his crisp white shirt as he went. 

“Are not,” Louis replied. He bit down hard on Harry’s hip, sucking at his skin, and it was all Harry could do to keep from falling apart just like that. His wrists ached from the tie knotted tight around them but it was a pain he could handle. And Louis held him down by his hips, burying his nose in the hair on Harry’s stomach and breathing him in deep. “We have plenty of time,” he whispered as Harry grew restless, struggling to escape from the knot that bound him to the bed. “You’re not getting off that easy,” Louis growled. And Louis teased him mercilessly, kissing and biting at his skin from his thighs to his collarbone and back again. He flashed his mischievous grin, the one that was purely Louis, every time Harry whined and bucked his hips up. 

“Hush,” he demanded, slipping two fingers between Harry’s lips as he mouthed playfully at Harry’s throat. And he was stunning, perfect as he began to stroke Harry with his free hand. “I love you,” Louis told him for the millionth time. 

“I love you,” Harry replied, and Louis let out a breathy, beautiful moan himself as Harry rolled his tongue over the pads of his fingers. 

“Fuck,” Louis groaned, and finally he relented. He took Harry into his mouth and with rough hands he held his hips down on the mattress, Harry desperate to buck up into his mouth but Louis keeping him down. “Stay there,” he groaned thickly, his tongue flattening to cup the underside of Harry’s cock. And he wanted to fist Louis’s hair roughly in his hands, holding him down as he moaned to the ceiling, but he strained against the tie holding him down and settled for the friction on his wrists instead.

“Mmm…” Harry whimpered, Louis’s mouth perfect as always. He was warm, so warm, and Harry’s alarm went off with a clang on his phone to warn him he had ten minutes before he had to leave. “Fuck!” he snarled. He writhed against the tie tethering him to the bed, bucking up into Louis’s mouth, and Louis gave him a stern look as best he could. “Lou, gotta go, I…” But whatever he was going to say was lost as Louis took all of him in at once, his nose in Harry’s pubic hair, and he whined a string of expletives to the ceiling that would have made him blush to say anywhere else. Louis was too much, even after all this time, and he moaned with pleasure from Harry’s as with the hand not holding Harry down he began to stroke himself. 

“So good,” Harry told him, his wrists aching and his heartbeat pounding in his head. “Lou, fuck, you’re so fucking good…” And Louis closed his baby blues as he worked Harry with his tongue, swirling his tongue until Harry saw stars. This was too much, too good, and Harry and Louis ignored it completely when the neighbor pounded once and then twice on the wall by Harry’s head. Louis laughed, he fucking laughed, and all at once the heat in Harry’s stomach reached the boiling point. 

“Lou, fuck, I’m gonna…” And all he could do was cry out as he came, white hot pleasure rolling down his spine, and Louis swallowed him deep. His eyes flew open, locking in on Harry’s. And then they closed and with a shudder and a desperate whimper Louis came right along with him. 

“Fuck,” Louis breathed. He collapsed between Harry’s knees, breathing hard. And Harry could hardly catch his breath. He was sore, tired and achy, but he was far better than all right. He was perfect. He was amazing. And the alarm on Harry’s phone went off again; five minutes to go to make it just in time. 

“Oops!” Louis laughed, and just like that he launched from the bed and padded to the bathroom to fix up his hair and finish putting together his rented suit. 

“Hey!” Harry cried as Louis preened in the bathroom mirror. But Louis reveled in Harry being helplessly tied to the bed, watching as Louis buttoned up his navy blue jacket and slicked back his mussed up sex hair with water from the sink. 

“What?” Louis asked as Harry griped and writhed where he lay. 

“Let me go,” he demanded, and the laugh Louis barked to the ceiling was so fucking lovely Harry almost thought of begging him to take him for round two. But he was a goddamn godfather and he had a duty and as Louis pretended to wipe tears of mirth from his eyes Harry feigned anger. “Let me go or the wedding’s off!” he griped, knowing full well Louis would not believe him for a second. 

“Ha!” Louis crowed. He was goddamn beautiful as he teased Harry and Harry ignored the heat that slowly returned to pool in his stomach. Louis stepped into the shiny black dress shoes Harry had bought him in Times Square just yesterday and he pretended to head towards the front door, whistling to himself as if he was the funniest goddamn person in the world. 

“Louis Tomlinson, get back here right now!” He wanted to laugh, he really did, but no part of him wanted to give his wild boy the satisfaction. 

“Or what?”

“Or you’ll regret it,” Harry said, struggling hard against the tie holding him down and failing to sound the least bit menacing. It was ridiculous, the joy Louis got from being such a goddamn pretty little devil, and he flashed his teeth at Harry and made his way back to the side of the bed. 

“Yeah?” Louis purred. “What could you do to me to make me regret this?” 

“I’ll think of something,” Harry promised. 

“I’m fucking shaking,” Louis teased, and finally satisfied he began to fumble with the knot holding Harry down with two minutes to go. The moment Harry was free he launched himself into Louis’s arms, wrapping his legs around Louis’s middle and forcing him to stumble back, carrying Harry from the bed to the bathroom. And Louis whined under his weight, laughing as he went, and he dropped Harry in front of the mirror and left the room while Harry fussed with his hair. He had welts on his wrists, angry and red, from the tie. It was all right. It was fine. He had no time to worry about the marks; he unrolled his sleeves and Louis brought him his jacket and he looked good enough in the mirror.

“How do I look?” he asked as Louis tried to straighten the wrinkles from Harry’s tie with his fingers to tie it around his neck.

“Like you’ve just been thoroughly fucked,” he said, kissing Harry on the tip of his nose when he growled in frustration. 

“We’re going to a _family gathering_ ,” Harry told him. “With _strangers_. Behave.”

“Like I ever misbehave,” Louis drawled. And he was the goddamn sexiest creature on the planet and he knew it, gorgeous and perfect in his suit, and Harry looked at the two of them in the mirror and thought he would have been hard pressed to find a more perfect match in the entire world. 

“Mine,” Harry told Louis’s reflection in the mirror. And Louis nodded, kissing Harry hard on the cheek and dragging him towards the front door.

“Yours,” he repeated. “Yours.”

 

After the long train rides and cab rides to upstate New York Harry and Louis arrived to find Zayn pacing outside despite the heat and Harry apologized as fast as he could for nearly being late.

“You’re fine,” Zayn told him. “You’re _fine_.” And he held Harry at arms’ length and took him in, pulling him into a brief hug and telling him, “You look good, man.”

“Not so bad yourself,” Harry teased him, straightening out Zayn’s red tie. “You clean up nice.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Zayn laughed, and the three of them stepped into the blissfully cool air conditioned foyer of Perrie’s mother’s house and towards Perrie, who held Olivia tight to her chest. 

“There you are!” Perrie crowed, looking miles better and brighter in a silky pink dress than she had in the hospital last time Harry saw her. “I’m sorry about the suits, my grandmother insisted on fancy dress…” And the moment Harry was within reach Perrie held out the baby in her arms and asked, “Anyway, would you like to hold your goddaughter?” 

“Yes,” Harry breathed. And it was never going to get old, holding his tiny goddaughter in his arms, and she was so damn big in comparison to the infant he cradled months ago. She had so much more hair, dark as Zayn’s, and she gave him the tiniest gummy smile as he held her to his chest.

“Hi, baby,” he cooed, shocked only for a moment at the softness of his voice. “How are you, my baby girl?” Without looking up he could see the smile on Zayn’s face, his chuckling laughter the only hint Harry needed to imagine it. He heard a new body enter the room, someone he could not care less about, and he did not look away from her face for a moment as Perrie greeted them. He couldn’t have looked away if he wanted to; Olivia captivated him. And it was the simplest love he had ever felt, the ease with which he fell in love not surprising at all, and her wide and shining eyes were the prettiest little eyes Harry had ever seen. 

(And he felt Louis looking at her over his shoulder and he wanted to turn to Louis and beg him for a baby, a tiny little person they could call their own, but he was a mess beneath all the love weighing him down and he had no idea how to say it.)

“I think she knows how much you love her,” Louis whispered in his ear, his breath tickling Harry’s neck, and all at once Harry wanted to cry.

“Yeah?” he asked. 

“Yeah,” Louis said. He kissed Harry’s cheek as Perrie held her hands out for her baby, pulling her from Harry’s arms and smiling at the anguished look he must have given her.

“I’ll give her back,” she said, “I promise.” And it was a quick, cozy little party, Harry hovering by Perrie more than he intended, and he kept his eyes firmly on the baby in her arms and tried to keep hot tears from rising up in them. Louis stood at his side, a smile playing on his lips, and Harry couldn’t help but lean heavy on him and let his boy take some of the weight from his shoulders. This was too much, Harry fucking Styles the goddamn menace a godfather to a perfect baby girl, and maybe he had no idea where he belonged in his life anymore but right here seemed like a damn good place to start. 

The moment the party was over Perrie pressed her baby back into Harry’s hands and let him walk out into the hot sunshine with her. Harry tilted his head back just enough to take in the sun for a moment before looking back to the girl in his arms. 

“She’s so goddamn perfect,” Harry told Louis, voice hushed as Olivia began to doze with her face tucked up against the lapels of his jacket. And Zayn laughed as he told Harry not to swear in front of his daughter and he said, 

“I know she is.” 

“I don’t ever want to let her go,” Harry breathed. He couldn’t; she was so soft and warm in his hands and he doubted he had the strength to hand her back at all. 

“You’ll have to visit a lot, then, Uncle Harry,” Zayn said with a wink. 

“Every weekend,” Harry breathed so quickly that Zayn and Perrie began to laugh at his breathless incredulity. 

“Maybe not so often we get sick of you,” Zayn joked. 

“Fuck off,” Harry replied. And Olivia was asleep, her tiny face pressed into Harry’s breast pocket, and Perrie looked up at Zayn and told him, 

“I guess we’re stuck with Harry until she wakes up.” And Zayn barked a laugh to the cloudless sky and invited Harry and Louis to walk with them in the sunshine, nowhere in particular, to give Harry more time with his goddaughter.

“Thank you,” Harry said to Perrie as Zayn and Louis walked side by side up ahead, and she beamed.

“You’re good with her,” she said. “Better than I ever thought you could have been.” And Harry was not hurt by her comment, not one bit. He knew damn well what she had seen of him; she had seen the very worst of every member of The Troves and even still she was here just as Harry was. All at once he wanted to tell her he was sorry for everything, for the stupid way he snapped at her the very first moment they met. But looking into her face and the face of her daughter he thought she probably understood. And she kicked at pebbles as Harry began to sweat in the sun, something she wanted to say on the tip of her tongue.

“What’s up?” he prompted her. 

“Nothing,” she replied. She looked up to Zayn just out of earshot up the block, and she looked back at Harry with wide eyes. 

“What?” he asked again. 

“I think he’s going to ask me to marry him,” she said, and Harry glanced up at the man who had been his best friend in the world since they were kids who knew nothing about the world. And still they knew next to nothing about the world in which they lived but they knew enough to keep going. 

“Yeah?” Harry asked.

“Yeah,” she said. “He went to the jewelers and he doesn’t know I know.” She looked happy, blissful in the sun, and Harry looked up once more at Zayn and told her,

“I think you might be right.” 

For a long time Perrie was quiet. But when she began to speak Harry listened, her daughter held tight in both hands. 

“I didn’t know what was going to happen when I called him,” she said. Harry knew exactly what she was talking about and he waited for her to go on. “I thought he was going to run away. I never asked for him to stay with me, Haz, and I’m so sorry that I called. I sort of…fuck.” She exhaled sharply and Harry was painfully reminded of how damn young she was as words failed her. “I blame myself for the band falling apart. There, I said it. It was because of me that Zayn left and I thought for the longest time it was going to ruin him. But instead it just ruined the band.” She savagely kicked a rock out of her way and watched it skid into the gutter, Louis and Zayn momentarily craning their necks to see what the commotion was, but Harry waved them away. Perrie waited until they turned around to go on.

“I wanted to put that out there because I want you to know how sorry I am,” she said, and that was all. She fell silent and she looked at anything but Harry. And it hurt, the pain she thought she had to bear alone, and Harry told her the truth.

“It wasn’t you at all,” he said. “It was him. It was me. Trust me, Perrie, we were done a long time before we met you.” It was easy to tell the truth and it was beautiful to see when Harry’s words of comfort made Perrie stand up just a little straighter as she walked. 

“I’m sorry anyway, then,” she said, “that in the end nothing worked out the way you planned.” Harry laughed, startling her, and Olivia stirred in his arms.

“Hush, baby,” he whispered to her, the tiny girl yawning and falling back asleep. And to her mother he said, “Everything worked out just fine.” She caught him when his eyes flicked to Louis, so small at Zayn’s side, and Perrie beamed. 

“I guess it did,” she replied. Again she was quiet, thinking something she was scared to say, and Harry jostled her shoulder and asked her what it was. “It’s just…” she said, eyes on Zayn as she stumbled and caught herself on a crack in the sidewalk. “How does it feel, Harry, being in love? When I look at Zayn and I look at what we have I start to think maybe I know what it feels like. But you must know better than anyone by now. Tell me so I know. What’s it like?” She was so damn small, so young and fragile, and Harry glanced at her and saw only solemn curiosity in her face. 

“You think I’m the expert?” he asked, and she laughed her tiny tinkling laugh.

“I think you are,” she nodded. “The way you look at him is magic, Haz.” 

“Is it?” Maybe the love he felt was magic, the sparks that he felt all along his spine every time Louis looked at him with those baby blue eyes feeling a whole lot like it could be. He had no idea. He was no expert. But it was easy to look at Louis and tell Perrie exactly how it felt to be in love. “It’s warm,” he said. He thought of Louis in his bed and Olivia in his arms and _warm_ was the first word he thought of when he thought of love. “It’s sweet. I don’t know. It’s like…” He thought of wanting to die when Louis left, the black hole in his chest threatening to kill him, and he thought of the hole filling up the moment he let Louis back into his heart. “It’s heavy. You think, there’s no way in hell I could ever live without this person. You could…but you don’t want to. It’s warm, Perrie, I don’t know.” He was terrible at explaining, Louis looking back at him for just a moment too long, Zayn having to throw an arm out and pull him by his sleeve to keep him from walking face first into a telephone pole. 

And as Louis tossed his head back to laugh at the sky the color of his eyes, his hair so damn long it brushed his shoulders as his chin tilted to the sky, Harry knew exactly what to say. 

“You think a million things at once. Like, how the hell did I get this person? How do I keep them? How can I do everything in my power to keep from losing them? And it’s hard. It’s so fucking hard. But it’s worth it in the end. Trust me, it is. Because in the end he makes me strong. Wherever he is, that’s where I want to be. And when I look in the future he’s all I can see.” He shrugged, trying and failing to play it off like he had not just bared his soul. And Perrie was stunned, her eyes on Louis and her eyes on Zayn as she breathed in deep.

“Wow,” she said, completely in awe. “Yeah. Yeah, I think I’m in love.” And Harry couldn’t help himself; he leaned in close and kissed her on the top of her head, filled with such warm and blissful feelings that nothing else mattered. He had to share them, get some out before he exploded with it. And she pretended to wipe his kiss from her hair, laughing so loud Zayn stopped walking and waited for them to catch up, and Harry was warm all over from not the sun but the heart pounding in his chest.

“What’s so funny?” Zayn asked, and Louis told him,

“Probably your face.” And it was remarkable that here they stood, huddled together around a tiny baby, and Harry looked up into each and every face and back down to Olivia. 

“Shut up!” Zayn laughed. 

“Never,” Louis replied. And they talked in the sunshine, Harry rocking his goddaughter in both hands, and one minute turned to two and two turned into an hour. The four of them stepped off the sidewalk and onto the green grass lining it to get out of the way of passers-by. And as Harry’s knees began to ache from standing still Perrie suggested the tiny ice cream parlor down the block and they began to walk again, taking up far too much space on the sidewalk to walk side by side by side. Olivia awoke in Harry’s arms and she began to coo, making small baby noises that made Louis light up like the sun. He begged for a turn holding her and Harry was reluctant to let her go, but Louis’s eyes shone bright and Harry would do anything for him. 

“Careful,” Harry said as if there was a chance Louis could drop her, and Louis rolled his eyes and cradled the baby in his slender hands. 

“Hi, baby,” Louis said as Zayn pulled open the door of the ice cream shop with a tinkling of bells and held it open for the four of them to walk through. Louis sat with Olivia in a pink stool in the corner of the shop and Harry did not have to ask him what he wanted. He knew Louis’s favorites by heart and knowing every goddamn thing about him was just another perfect, simple thing about what it meant to be in love. Harry brought Louis back a cone and passed it into his waiting hand, Olivia held tight between Louis’s free hand and his chest. Zayn and Perrie shared the biggest waffle cone bowl Harry had ever seen, Zayn scooping the quickly melting ice cream into his mouth like he had not eaten in years, making Perrie battle him for all that was left. 

And it was a small and simple thing to sit here with the people he loved the most, and Harry helped Louis catch the ice cream dripping from his cone to keep it from splashing down onto the baby in his arms. And Olivia gave a tiny little laugh that made the world stop turning all around her. Zayn froze and so did Perrie, the two of them shooting their heads up to see what had made her laugh.

“What?” Harry asked as he wiped caramel from his fingers. 

“That’s the first time,” Zayn breathed, mouth agape and eyes impossibly wide.

“The first time what?” 

“The first time she’s laughed.” And it was beautiful, the way she laughed again as Louis caught a drip of ice cream in his palm, and as the rest of them began to laugh with her Harry was amazed once again at how something simple could mean nothing simple at all. 

 

In the last week of August Harry came home from the grocery store with his arms laden down with paper bags to find the apartment lights dimmed and candles in every color of the rainbow lit on the kitchen counter.

“Lou?” Harry called, wondering vaguely if he had missed something as he set the bags in his arms down on the countertop. The kitchen smelled like cherry, like lemon and mint and blueberry, and Harry tried his best not to knock the multi-colored candles over as he put the groceries away. Harry and Louis were not practiced quite yet at treating their bodies well, Harry stuffing ice cream and frozen pizzas and French fries into the freezer. But he dropped apples into the fridge and oranges went spilling across the counter and he figured a meager selection of fruit was better than nothing. He folded up the empty paper bags and stuffed them beside the fridge, waving his hands over the candles to catch a bit of the warmth from the tiny flames in his palms. And again he called out from the kitchen.

“Lou?” If Louis was here he was playing hard to get and Harry grinned, rolling his eyes even though Louis could not see him doing so. “What are you doing, Lou?” Harry asked. He tiptoed through the kitchen, heading for the bedroom, and he slipped off his shoes and left them on the hardwood floor just before his closed bedroom door. “Lou?” he asked once more, and he slipped the door open. And Louis was there on their bed, lounging in the dark in his underwear, and when Harry stepped into the room and closed the door behind him Louis said nothing at all.

“What’s the occasion?” Harry asked, gingerly sitting on the bed at Louis’s side. 

“It’s one month to the day until we get married, Haz,” Louis breathed. And in the dark Harry could see the excitement on his face, the gleam in his wide eyes, and he grinned just as Louis began to flash his teeth in the room lit only by the Manhattan lights outside the window. 

“Is it?” Harry asked.

“Yes!” Louis crowed. “It is, and I want to have a long, romantic fuck and then I want you to take me somewhere nice. What do you say?” 

“Are you sure about the going out part?” Harry asked. “I’d much rather do the romantic fucking part all night long instead.”

“I want you to take my ring,” Louis said, “and pretend to propose to me in front of a restaurant full of people. What do you think?”

“Are you serious?” 

“Yes,” Louis breathed.

Harry told him the goddamn truth. “Anything for you.” And Harry took hold of Louis’s hand and slipped the gold ring from his finger, putting it into the pocket of his jeans just in time for Louis to rip them off him. 

“Come here,” Louis groaned. Harry’s knees buckled as Louis dragged Harry on top of him by his hips, their bodies colliding on the mattress. Louis helped Harry struggle out of his T-shirt, the summer giving them far less layers to pull off of each other, and within the space of one long, deep breath Harry was completely naked, skin to skin with his beautiful boy on their royal purple sheets. 

“Hi,” Louis said as Harry propped himself up on his hands and knees above him.

“Hi,” Harry replied. And there was no rushing in the way they moved, no frantic breaths and no telling one another they had to hurry, they had to go. They had all damn night long, the day not old enough yet for the sun to set low in the sky. For the longest time they did nothing but hold one another, sinking into the mattress side by side. Louis’s limbs tangled up with Harry’s as they lay silent with the curtains drawn to keep out the light of sunset and Harry brushed Louis’s long hair back from his forehead with gentle fingers. 

“I love you,” Louis whispered as if it was the very first time.

“And I love you,” Harry replied. Slowly, so slowly he hardly moved at all, Louis began to trace his fingers in careful circles on Harry’s hip. He stopped each time Harry took a breath and Harry chose not to breathe at all, the feeling of Louis’s hands on his skin enough to take all the air from his body. And maybe Harry was still clueless about the world but he knew a thing or two about love. Louis loved him so damn much, slow and gentle as his hands traced Harry’s skin. Harry knew what love felt like. And this was it. Louis lay cradled in his arms, their legs tangled up together, and Louis began to tiptoe his fingers up each of Harry’s ribs. 

(It was a small and simple thing, this love, and maybe it was simple to the core after all.)

Goose bumps rolled down Harry’s spine as Louis ghosted his fingers up to Harry’s chest and down to trace the line of hair on his bare stomach. Harry wanted to tell Louis he loved him until the familiar rawness came back up his throat but he knew, he knew, that Louis was perfectly aware just how much he loved him. And Harry pressed a soft kiss into Louis’s hair, breathing in the sweet cinnamon scent of him, and in reply Louis pressed his thumb into the curve between Harry’s hip and his thigh. It hurt, it hurt, but Louis was gentle in every other way and he pressed his body closer to Harry, all heat and sugar and breathy sighs. 

It was easy to sink into his touch and let Louis tell him without speaking at all just how much he loved Harry. And the apartment and the bedroom smelled like seven different candles and Louis danced his gentle fingers up Harry’s body to his chest, where he splayed his fingers over Harry’s heart and held it there, in as much disbelief as Harry was that his heart beat on still. Harry was growing restless beneath Louis’s hands and Louis sighed as Harry tried to reach for Louis and kiss him on the mouth. But Louis wanted it slow and he wanted to tease Harry mercilessly, grinning devilishly in the dark.

“Hush,” he told Harry. “Just wait, baby.” Louis was worth the wait, he always was, and Harry lay back and let Louis brush his fingers along every goddamn inch of his bare skin. He wanted to whine and he wanted to roll over and let Louis writhe beneath him, but he was powerless under Louis’s hands and he lay perfectly still, hardly daring to breathe as Louis touched him. 

“You’re so gorgeous, Harry,” Louis whispered, and the awe in his voice stunned Harry no matter how many goddamn times he heard it. He was nothing special; he had permanent scars on the inside of his arm and he was ghostly pale more often than not and he was only now beginning to fill out again from learning for the hundredth time how to treat his body well. He was nothing special and he was nothing all that perfect; he went to therapy once a week and had no idea just yet how to be normal. But Louis made him feel as if he was. Louis brushed his hand along the tattoo on Harry’s arm, the anchor that signified everything Harry and Louis were. 

“So perfect,” Louis told him, and Harry did his best to believe him. 

“You are,” he breathed, catching Louis’s hand in his own. It scared him just a bit, the way Louis’s hand felt without the gold ring weighing it down, but Harry was going to put it right back on his finger as soon as he possibly could. He was fine. He was better than fine. And Louis slipped his hand from Harry’s grasp and ran soft fingers down Harry’s thighs, Harry fighting to keep from trembling with want. 

“Hush,” Louis said before Harry could beg him to take him all the way. He knew Harry better than anyone, after all, and he quieted him before he even got the chance to beg. “Just wait.” He rolled over in their bed, crushing Harry to the mattress for just a moment, and then there he was on his hands and knees above him, his long hair hanging in his face.

“Hi,” Harry said once again.

“Hi,” Louis replied. Harry reached up to tuck long locks behind Louis’s ears and Louis relaxed into his touch, purring like a cat. And maybe Louis was better at hiding the want deep inside him than Harry was but he gave it all away as quiet moans escaped him. 

“Hi,” Harry said again, and Louis was breathless as he replied, 

“Hi.” For a moment they stared at each other, quiet and careful, and then Louis left all pretense of pretending Harry was the only one who wanted to be touched behind. “Fuck me,” Louis breathed, and Harry did his best to obey. Louis wanted it slow, languishing in the heat of Harry, and it was all he could do to keep from bucking his hips and fucking Louis until he lost his breath.

Harry could do slow. He could do long and loving and romantic, the scent of candles hanging thick in the air. He could give Louis everything he wanted and more, and the realization was the warmest tidal wave of relief Harry had ever felt. He could give Louis everything he wanted and more. He was capable of love and he was capable of this, of loving Louis for all his life, and maybe they were destined to meet in this life after all. 

“I love you,” Harry breathed, hardly daring to move deep inside Louis as they two of them rocked slowly in bed. This was something different, something far from the wild, rough sex they usually had in this bed, and Harry reveled in the warmth and he reveled in the way Louis unraveled beneath his wandering hands. 

“I love you,” Louis cooed. “I fucking love you, I love you.” 

Harry did not know much. But he knew a goddamn thing or two about love. 

 

Despite the season the night was chilly and Louis wrapped his arms tight around his body as Harry and Louis wandered the Manhattan streets for the nicest place they could find. And Harry remembered the very first night they almost had a date, when Louis had teased him and asked him to take him to the nicest place in town. Harry would have done it; he was smitten from the start. But now he finally got his chance, a year too late, but it was not too late to Louis. He beamed as Harry draped his leather jacket around his narrow shoulders, the coat too big for him, and he stuffed his arms into the sleeves and let them dangle far below his fingertips. Louis glowed as they walked, his golden engagement ring heavy in the pocket of Harry’s jeans, and Harry had never been so unafraid of anything in his life. For the hundredth time he was going to ask Louis to be his for the rest of his life and he was not afraid. 

(He was not afraid of anything, not anymore.)

Louis picked a place thirteen blocks from their apartment and Harry held the door for him, following him inside. 

“Table for two?” the hostess asked with a smile, and Louis nodded.

“Yes, please,” he said. He looked so small in Harry’s coat, wearing the devilish grin Harry loved beyond all other things, and the hostess led them to a table with a crisp red tablecloth and a candle lit right in the center. She dropped menus before them and walked away, leaving Harry and Louis to watch each other across the table and wait to see who would speak first. Louis busied himself in reading the wine list, Harry sure there was no way he would order any wine at all, and Harry looked up at the people seated all around them. There was an elderly couple to their left and a middle aged couple to their right. In the booth closest to them sat two couples across from one another, the girls sitting side by side across from the boys. 

“It’s busy tonight,” Louis told Harry with a wink, excitement lighting up his perfect face. 

“A good audience for you, you showoff,” Harry teased in reply. And Louis pretended he did not want to laugh as their waitress bustled up to the table and asked them what they would like to drink. Louis asked four questions about the different wines, biting back his sly smile as she explained each one in detail, and he frowned when she was done and asked her for a Coke. He laughed so beautifully that the waitress did not look angry for a moment, laughing with him as Harry doubled the orders for a Coke. 

“I’ll be right back,” she grinned, still laughing as she walked away to get their drinks. 

“And you tell me I’m the menace,” Harry told his perfect boy the moment their waitress was out of earshot. 

“You are,” Louis said. “But no one said I couldn’t be one, too.” He shrugged and Harry felt the weight of the ring in his pocket as the waitress returned with their drinks. She took their order, Louis placing an order for some ridiculous Italian meal that sounded like gibberish to Harry , and the waitress had to ask Harry twice for his order, Harry too busy looking at Louis to reply. He apologized as she smiled, ordering simple to counteract Louis’s meal, and the waitress collected their menus and lingered at their table for a long moment. And she looked around to make sure not one of the other tables gave her any notice before leaning in close to Louis. 

“You two are the cutest couple in here,” she told them, and she flushed pink as Louis told her,

“Don’t we know it.” She laughed yet again, Louis Tomlinson the most charming man in the world, and the waitress left them alone with nothing but the flickering candle between them. 

“When do you want me to do it?” Harry asked, dropping one hand on the table and letting Louis wrap his slender hand around it. 

“Do what?” Louis asked, and it looked like Harry was on his own. He was no expert on these things, proposing to Louis over and over when they were the only two people in the room. He had no idea how to act, what to do, and Louis grinned crookedly and he was not going to help at all. 

“You know what?” Harry asked as he stood on legs that all at once did not want to support him. “I’m going to go change my order.” And he walked away towards the kitchen, shoulders squared, intent on begging their waitress for help. He bumped into her as she stepped from the kitchen with empty glasses in her hands, the poor girl nearly jumping out of her skin as they collided.

“Sorry!” Harry cried. “I’m sorry!” Recovering quickly, the waitress set her glasses down and wiped her hands on the black apron she wore below her waist. 

“What can I do for you?” she asked, eyes wide. 

“I’m proposing,” Harry said as fast as he could. “I’m proposing tonight and I’m scared out of my mind.” He had fooled himself pretty damn well, convinced nothing could scare him now, but he trembled before the waitress with a plea for help on his lips. 

“Oh!” she cried, her hand flying up to cover her mouth as it dropped open. “Oh, wow, what do you need? What can I do to help?” The smile on her face did nothing to ease Harry’s fear; the thought of fumbling through a proposal the scariest thing Harry had ever faced.

(Dying was easy but bending down on one knee was hard.)

It was a ridiculous thought and Harry shook his head to clear it as the waitress fussed, asking him how he wanted to do it and when.

“I don’t know!” he all but cried. “I don’t know how to do this; how does this usually work?” The girl was so happy, so excited that she got to be a part of this, and she wrung her hands and bounced on the spot.

“Well,” she said, hopping up and down on her heels. “Why don’t you do what most people do and order champagne? I can put the ring in his glass…oh my God, can I see the ring?” Harry almost choked on the strangled laugh that escaped his lips as he wrapped his fingers around the heavy gold band in his pocket. This was wild, all of it, and he held the ring out in his palm for the girl to admire in the golden light of the restaurant. 

“It’s not much,” he said as her eyes opened even wider. “But I think he’s going to love it.”

“He is,” she breathed. “It’s beautiful! Oh wow, I can’t believe this.”

“It has to be perfect,” Harry told her as calmly as he could. “Please help me.” 

“I will,” the girl promised. “Give me the ring and at the end of the night we’ll bring you champagne. How does that sound?”

“Good,” Harry told her because he had no ideas of his own in his overstuffed brain. This was wild, how scared he was; Louis had already told him yes in a million different ways. 

“Okay,” she told him, grinning from ear to ear. “Hey, relax. Don’t you see the way he looks at you? There’s nothing to be afraid of.” She made him take a deep breath and then another before sending him back to his table, to Louis. He sat down to Louis chewing at his straw, a smirk dancing on his lips. 

“Did you find the waitress?” Louis asked. “So you could change your order?”

“Sure did,” Harry replied. Louis was so goddamn mischievous, bright and warm in the subtle glow from the candle on the table, and Harry would have grinned right back if he could manage to stop quaking in his seat. 

“I’m so in love with you,” Louis leaned in close to whisper, and Harry admired the way his leather jacket made Louis look so perfectly, delicately small. 

“And I am so in love with you,” he replied. The waitress returned quickly with their plates laden down with food, winking at Harry behind Louis’s head. And he gulped, feeling warm all over, and he thanked her for the food as without a word she walked away.

“She’s excited,” Louis said as he twisted his fork into his dinner.

“Not as excited as you,” Harry shot back. Louis laughed loud enough to make all eyes in the place land on him and Harry loved the way he commanded each and every room he occupied without even trying. He was carefree in his charisma, so damn sure of himself, and Harry could live a hundred years and never come close to the self-confidence Louis had. 

The two of them ate in near silence, Harry’s heart racing so hard he could see his heart beating across his vision in flashes of light. He sweat through his button down shirt, sure he and Louis looked far out of place in a place like this. But he was okay. He was better than okay. He could do this; he could. The waitress returned and asked them if she could offer them anything else, and Harry craned his neck to look up at her and ask for two glasses of champagne. His voice shook terribly but the waitress played it off well, telling him she would be right back as Harry locked eyes with Louis. 

“You already said yes to me,” Harry reminded Louis, imagining a million things that could go wrong at any moment. “Don’t get funny and pretend to turn me down. I would drop dead on the spot, I swear to God.”

“Harry!” Louis gasped, pretending to be taken aback. “How could you think something like that of me? You know I would never say no to you.” He let the sly smile slide from his face, trying on solemnity instead. “Nothing could ever make me say no to you, Harry,” he said just as the waitress returned with two glasses held between her fingers. She dropped Harry’s to the table first, cupping Louis’s in her hand so only Harry could see the golden band at the bottom of the glass, and she backed off just enough to give them room to breathe. 

And Louis was gorgeous as he picked up his glass, eying the ring lying in the bottom, and his lips fell open convincingly enough to make Harry scared out of his wits all over again. But there were eyes all over him, the waitress silently getting the attention of every pair of eyes in the room as Harry slid out of his seat and tried with all his might not to faint. He crouched on one knee as Louis clutched his glass like a life preserver, reaching for his fork to fish the ring from the glass of gently fizzing champagne. 

“Louis Tomlinson,” Harry said, voice shaking. Louis took the ring in his fingers and wiped it dry on his shirt, his eyes impossibly wide. He was a damn good actor and at any other moment Harry would have laughed. But everyone was watching him and he was born to be onstage but not one as small as this. And Louis passed him the ring as he reached for it, taking Louis’s slender left hand in both his own. 

“Lou,” he breathed, and he slid the ring back home where it belonged on Louis’s finger. “Lou, will you marry me?” And this was real, this was serious, and Louis’s eyes swam with tears that were not part of the act at all. The room waited with bated breath, the waitress hovering just behind Harry. And just like that Louis opened his mouth and he told Harry, 

“Yes. Yes, I would love to marry you!” and the room erupted in cheers. Louis threw his arms around Harry’s neck as he struggled to stand and Harry swung his fiancé in a circle, holding him as tight as he could to his chest as their little audience clapped and whooped. 

“I love you,” Harry said, setting Louis back down on the floor, and Louis kissed Harry hard enough to make his head spin in reply. And this was better than any high, far better than reaching out for fans onstage, and Harry would not have traded this life for anything. The two of them sat back down as the waitress tried to sneak wiping tears from her eyes, and Harry beamed across the table at Louis, at the love of his life. 

“I love you,” Harry said again, and this time Louis splayed his fingers to admire his ring like he had done a thousand times before and he told Harry,

“I love you, too.”

 

Later, tangled together in the sheets on their bed, Harry brushed back Louis’s hair from his forehead and marveled at the boy he got to keep forever, all his own. 

“You really are a showoff,” Harry told him, kissing the pads of Louis’s fingers and holding him close as he could.

“I know it,” Louis chuckled, perfect as he laughed. “But what’s the point of being ridiculously happy if you and I are the only two who know?”

“Are you?” Harry asked with his lips just barely brushing Louis’s. 

“Am I what?”

“Ridiculously happy.”

“Oh,” Louis said, taking hold of Harry by his hair and kissing him hard on the mouth, fed up with Harry teasing him with gentle lips. When they pulled apart Louis beamed, the taste of champagne lingering on his lips, and he told Harry the best damn thing his ears had ever heard. “Yes,” he said. “I am ridiculously, insanely, unbelievably happy. And you?”

“Yes,” Harry told him without hesitation. “Yes, I am.”

And maybe that was how all of this was meant to go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PSYCH! 
> 
> There's a surprise epilogue. Stay tuned xx
> 
> Love to all my readers and I'll see you soon!


	27. Chapter 27

The first thought that crossed Harry’s mind on the morning of his wedding day was the best thought. _Today I’m getting married_ , he told himself, in awe of the truth as he wiped sleep from his eyes. Harry fucking Styles (resident menace) and Louis Tomlinson (perfect little devil) were going to be married in just a few hours, on a cool Saturday afternoon in late September. There was not a cloud in the sky as Harry lay tangled up in Louis’s arms and his beautiful boy slept on, undisturbed by the alarm Harry had set for six in the morning. Dawn had just barely passed him by and he yawned, stretching out in bed and listening to the sounds of his bones creaking in quiet protest. Today he was getting married. He was going to begin the day a fiancé and end it as a husband, his groom sleeping peacefully at his side with one arm thrown over his eyes. 

And Harry yearned to wake him. Harry admired the curve of Louis’s lips, puffy from the hours they spent making out like horny teenagers, and he wanted to touch Louis’s mouth and feel the softness of his skin. He had barely slept at all, his body buzzing with excitement that kept him up long after Louis had fallen asleep. He was getting married today. Harry fucking Styles was getting married to the most perfect man he had ever met and he had no idea how he was going to pass the hours between now and then. For a long moment he looked out the window and pictured how damn good Louis was going to look in the suit he had picked out, the one he would not let Harry see, insisting he wanted Harry to see him for the first time as Sophia walked him down the aisle. 

And Harry had accepted because he didn’t fucking care; nothing mattered but the small and simple fact that at the end of the night Harry was going home with his husband. The two of them were not going on a honeymoon; together they had already seen enough of the world. They were going to return home after the wedding and let the rest of their lives be the honeymoon and Harry was more than okay with the way things had turned out to be. He thought of how terribly he would miss Louis in the few hours they had to be apart, Sophia planning everything impeccably as she always did (Harry had no idea what they would have done without her but that was always the case), and she was going to help Louis get ready in their apartment as Zayn came to whisk Harry away to his hotel room to prepare him. 

It was going to be a whirlwind and Harry was scared it was going to pass him by far too fast. So he did not mind lying here now, daydreaming of the day that was yet to come, because soon it would be over and soon he would be right back here cradled in Louis’s arms. He wanted to cherish this day, holding it close to his chest, and for the hundredth time he reached over to check the drawer of their bedside table. In the drawer Harry had stashed the wedding bands he and Louis had picked out just the week before. Louis’s was simple, thin gold with a single tiny diamond embedded in the metal. It complimented his engagement ring well, the two rings looking perfect on Louis’s slender hand, and Harry had nearly cried at the sight when Louis had slipped them on to see how they looked. And Harry’s ring was gold, too, but thick and heavy where Louis’s was almost delicate. 

(Long after Louis had fallen asleep last night Harry had slipped Louis’s emerald ring from his finger and replaced it with the golden wedding ring, the way it gleamed on his hand filling a hole he had close to his heart he did not even realize was there.)

Harry was going to have to get Louis’s emerald ring resized for another finger, the loss of it on his skin scaring him more than anything, but for now it sat on top of the bedside table and gleamed silver in the light of the rising sun. Louis’s ring had meant a lot of things to Harry and he had the feeling Louis would rather he throw it from the rooftop of their building than wear it like a ball and chain. But Harry did not see it that way, not anymore. It meant to him now all that he had survived to get here, living through the loss of Louis twice and the loss of his life just as many times. He had been beaten down and he had relapsed into more things than one. He had traveled the country without Louis at his side and the ring had sat out of sight on Sophia’s pocket. But after everything, after all the heartbreak and tears and drinking and falling apart, Harry had survived. And he was not going to give up his symbol of that for anything.

Louis stirred in his arms and Harry tried to hush him. He wanted Louis to get enough sleep and he wanted Louis to be at ease for as long as he could. They had every detail planned out meticulously, Louis spending the last month getting everything ready for today. Harry was useless at booking reception halls and catering and flowers, and he stood at the sidelines watching Louis plan out the perfect wedding. Whatever Louis wanted, Harry wanted. It was easy to watch him pore over flowers and suits and colors for his vest and tie, and he waved Harry away each and every time he offered help. 

And he was all right. He was great, he was perfect. 

Louis awoke with a groan despite Harry’s best efforts, stretching out like a cat in the bed and yawning wide. Harry watched his head loll on his pillow as he woke up and he waited for Louis to turn his head and look at him. And when he finally did, baby blues open wide, Harry told him,

“We’re getting married today.” 

The grin Louis shot back took Harry’s breath away.

(And he wondered how his lungs would suffer over a lifetime of Louis taking his goddamn breath away, but what did he need them for anyway?)

“We’re getting married today!” Louis replied. “Today!” He beamed from ear to ear, so beautiful as he smiled, and Harry brushed his sleep matted hair back from his forehead and kissed him gently right between the eyes. Louis purred in pleasure, sliding closer to Harry’s touch, and Harry felt his heart give way just another notch more. He was going to reach a limit; there had to be a limit of how painfully in love he could be. But more and more he began to think he was going to fall more in love every damn day. 

And he was okay.

He pulled his beautiful boy to his chest and showered Louis’s face with kisses, Louis squirming in his arms and trying to pull away. 

“Get off!” Louis laughed with no real fight in him.

“After the wedding,” Harry teased him in reply, his wandering fingers tangling up in Louis’s pubic hair. He gave a tiny tug with his fingers and Louis all but whimpered, sighing into Harry’s throat. 

“Don’t do that,” Louis whined as he pulled away.

“Don’t do what?” 

“If you make me think about sex all day I’m never going to be able to walk down the aisle without a raging hard on,” Louis replied, and Harry laughed so hard he began to cry, fat tears rolling down his cheeks. And Louis caught them with his thumbs, dabbing each tear away, and he looked close to tears of mirth himself as he leaned back on his pillows. 

And Harry was going to have Louis all to himself every goddamn morning for the rest of his life. 

“What?” Louis asked as Harry stopped breathing entirely for staring at him.

“I’m so in love with you,” Harry said as if it was the first time, and Louis reached out to cup Harry’s cheek in the warm palm of his hand. 

“Tough luck,” Louis told him. “I’m only into you for your devastating good looks.” Again Harry laughed, his stomach aching, and Louis pressed stubble studded kisses onto every inch of Harry’s skin he could reach. 

“Jesus,” Harry groaned as he shoved Louis and his hungry lips away. “Soph will have a heart attack if you don’t shave for your own damn wedding.”

“Aww,” Louis replied, burying his nose deeper into the hollow of Harry’s throat. “You love my beard; you can admit it.” 

“I do,” Harry said (more than anything he loved the way it felt when Louis had his face right between Harry’s thighs). “But I’m not dealing with Soph glaring at you all day.”

“Anything for Sophia,” Louis smiled against Harry’s skin. And he was warm, blessedly so, and there was no part of Harry that wanted to rise from his bed and miss Louis for even one minute. But whether too fast or too slow time was never on Harry’s side. Far before he was ready to stop kissing Louis and get up Zayn was calling him, Harry’s phone vibrating hard enough to go flying off the nightstand and hit the floor with a clatter. 

“Shit,” Harry groaned, and he rolled over to pick his phone up off the floor and answer Zayn’s phone call with a quick text telling him he would be downstairs to meet him in the lobby of the apartment building in just one minute.

“Do you really have to go?” Louis replied as Zayn answered Harry’s text to tell him he was sending Sophia up to Louis. 

“Yes,” Harry told him. But he lounged in bed for just a moment longer, Louis’s hands soft all over him, and Louis groaned in pain when Harry began to sit up and roll away. “Soph is coming for you; you better get dressed.”

“Nah,” Louis said. He threw back the covers as Harry rose and began hunting for a clean pair of underwear on the floor, and Louis called his name until he looked up from the carpet to take in Louis and his perfect, beautiful body. 

“And you accuse _me_ of making _you_ think of sex,” Harry said as he felt heat beginning to build up in his stomach. But he couldn’t have Louis, not now. For the next few hours he would belong to Sophia as she fawned over him, and Harry’s heart ached already at the thought of how much he was going to miss Louis. And he told him so, pulling clean underwear up over his hips, and Louis’s wide eyes traced the lines of his body as he moved and Louis lay motionless. 

“Fuck,” Louis breathed, collapsing on his face onto his pillow. “I can’t do this. You’re going to have to do this without me. Can I call in my _I do_?”

“What are you talking about?” Harry asked, buttoning up the jeans he was not going to be wearing for long. His suit waited for him in Zayn’s hotel room and he dressed in something comfortable for now, dreading the thought of the awful pinching shoes he was going to have to wear for hours. 

“You’re too damn hot, Harry Styles,” Louis moaned. His voice was muffled by his pillow and Harry barked a laugh, shoving his arms through the sleeves of a battered old band hoodie. 

“So?” he teased. 

“So I can’t even look at you without blushing,” Louis replied. “How am I supposed to stand there and not pounce on you at the fucking altar?” And maybe Louis was scared, griping about nonsensical things to pretend he was not, and Harry crouched on the floor by Louis’s head to get eye to eye with him.

“Lou,” he said, carding Louis’s long hair back with his fingers. “Lou, what’s wrong?” 

“Nothing,” Louis told the bed. And they didn’t have time to fight, they didn’t have time for worry or doubt or anxiety. Sophia was on her way upstairs and Zayn waited for Harry downstairs and Louis was naked in bed and Harry could hardly breathe for the worry in his chest. And maybe they were meant to be a mess but it didn’t make it any easier to stay calm as Harry carded restlessly through Louis’s hair. 

“Tell me.”

“Harry,” Louis breathed, and Harry could have sworn his heart stopped in his chest and sputtered back to life.

“What?”

“Are you sure you really want me?” Louis asked. “Me?” 

“Yes,” Harry told him. “Yes, you.” Was there really any doubt in his mind? Was he honestly scared of the same thing Harry was, that he was not good enough and there was no way in hell that all of this happiness could be real and could last forever? It was a painful thought but it was the truth, Louis hardly breathing as he buried his face in his pillow and reached out blindly for Harry with one hand. Harry took Louis’s small and trembling hand in both of his own, the metal of their rings clacking together, and Harry had no idea what he could say to ease the fear in Louis. 

“Harry,” Louis breathed.

“What?”

“I’m scared.”

And Harry was, too, scared of the future and scared of himself and scared that maybe he was still the same man who could fall apart at any moment, but he could be brave for the moment if bravery was what Louis needed.

“I am, too.” It was the goddamn truth and Louis’s grip on Harry’s hands tightened for just a moment. And Louis peeked out from where he lay folded up in bed, his eyes shining wide. “Hi,” Harry said, close enough to kiss him.

“Hi,” Louis’s muffled voice replied.

“I love you,” Harry said.

“I love you…” Louis replied, trailing off at the end only to add, “more.”

“No way.”

“Yes.”

“Lou, nobody could ever love anyone as much as I love you. They would break.” And for a moment Louis thought and after a beat he said,

“You break me.” But it was a good thing, a sly smile on Louis’s lips, and from the front door Harry heard Sophia knocking with sharp knuckles. Louis looked at Harry and Harry looked at Louis and as Harry rose on shaky legs he said,

“Get dressed. She’ll kill you if she comes in here and you’re naked.” Louis groaned in protest but instead of obeying he flashed Harry his mischievous grin and wrapped himself up in their sheets.

“Good enough,” Louis told him with a laugh, and Harry had no choice but to leave him and go to the door to let Sophia in. She was in the apartment before he had even stepped back to let her in, already done up and smelling like vanilla perfume as she bustled inside. And she looked beautiful, her hair pulled back into a complicated up do, curls cascading down her back. She wore a delicate pink dress that fell to her knees and pink pearl earrings, her high heels clicking on the hardwood floor, and she moved so fast Harry had to catch her by the shoulders to get a good look at his best girl.

“You look so beautiful, my Sophia,” he told her, resisting the urge to crush her to his chest. 

“Thank you,” she told him, looking up into his face with wide eyes. “Don’t touch me.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” he replied as he released her bare shoulders and she adjusted her dress as if he had mussed it. 

“Where’s Lou?” she asked, brisk and bubbly and so excited she seemed to vibrate where she stood. And Harry could have kissed her, her excitement crushing the overwhelming panic in his chest, but he didn’t dare. 

“In bed,” Harry told her, and he winced in pain as she shrieked.

“Louis Tomlinson!” she cried, already on her way to the bedroom. Harry did not follow her, choosing to stand in the living room where she left him and listen to her berate Louis. “Are you naked?” she cried in disbelief, and Harry collapsed into a painful bout of laughter on their leather sofa. 

“Yes!” Louis crowed in reply. “I was thinking of going to the wedding like this. What do you think?” And she shouted at him about his beard, about the mess that was his hair, and although Harry would have given anything to stay and watch her fuss over Louis he had somewhere else to be. Without saying goodbye he slipped from the apartment, sure the both of them would be too busy pretending to argue with each other to miss him much. 

Zayn paced the lobby as Harry neared him, tripping down the stairs in his Chucks, and the moment he caught Harry’s eye he beamed.

“Ready to get dolled up?” Zayn teased, and Harry rolled his eyes and said,

“Am I ever.”

In Zayn’s hotel room Perrie rocked Olivia in her arms and said a brief hello to Harry as Zayn led him to the closet that held his suit and his shoes and his tie.

“Soph was in hysterics,” Zayn said as he ducked into the closet to pass Harry everything he needed. “She had a feeling you and Lou were going to look like hell and she was going to have a project on her hands.” And he grinned over his shoulder at Harry, passing him his shoes, to add, “She was right.” 

“Fuck off,” Harry said, leaving Zayn to duck as Harry lobbed one shining shoe at him. Zayn evaded it and threw it right back, Harry dropping the shoe in his hand to catch the other one flying at him, and from the other side of the room Perrie reminded them they did not have much time.

“Sorry, sorry,” Zayn said, and he pushed Harry into the bathroom and told him to get dressed. Harry locked the door and dropped his clothes on the linoleum floor piece by piece, kicking his jeans and his sneakers under the sink and gingerly pulling his pristine navy blue suit from the plastic bag it had been hanging in since he bought it. His shoes hurt him the moment he put them on and he groaned to himself as he carefully did up the buttons of his jacket. As he looked in the mirror he thought for a moment he almost looked good, put together in a suit that fit him well, and he turned from side to side to admire the effect of trying to clean up well. 

“Let me in,” Zayn demanded, and Harry slipped the door open to let Zayn step inside. And Zayn beamed. “You look good!” he told him, making Harry stand up straight to get the best look at his suit in full. “Just do something with your fucking hair, man.”

“Like what?” Harry turned to look at his reflection, his hair messy as it always was, and he thought it a lost cause. But Zayn wet his hands and went to work, combing Harry’s curls back from his forehead and his face with his fingers. 

“Like this,” Zayn said. He pushed Harry by the shoulder to turn him again to the mirror and it made a difference, the way Zayn had slicked Harry’s hair back making him look a little less like a tired rock star and more like a man on his wedding day.

“Thank you,” Harry said, and Zayn sidestepped the hug Harry tried to give him.

“Don’t fuck up your suit!” he warned him, laughing as Harry tried to drag him into a hug anyway. He evaded Harry’s arms and Harry beamed at him, smiling so wide his cheeks began to ache. He had the feeling his face was going to be stuck in a smile by the end of the day. 

Zayn scooped his daughter into his arms to let Perrie get dressed, grinning wide himself as she stepped out from the bathroom in a ballerina pink dress in the same shade as Sophia’s. And she took Olivia back to let Zayn get into his own suit and the three of them stood in the hotel room without saying a word for a long moment. 

(Not one of them could stop smiling.)

“Are we ready to go?” Zayn asked, and Harry told him he was without hesitation. And they hailed a cab dressed to the nines, riding in giddy silence to the church. Harry wished Louis was at his side to catch every goddamn moment and he wondered what Louis was doing now in their apartment, Sophia without a doubt harassing him to shave and to fix his wild hair. Zayn caught Harry beaming and did not ask him what he smiled for; he knew without Harry having to say. 

It was his goddamn wedding day and no amount of fear of the future could have made him stumble even for a moment.

They arrived at the church with two hours to go before the ceremony, the planner and the decorators and the florist and the pastor already there, running around and barking orders and dressing the place in baby’s breath and roses. And never in his life had Harry been to a wedding, his own the first he was ever going to be a part of, and he was not afraid. Not of this. Not of Louis. Not of spending the rest of his life as a husband, as a one and only, as a lover.

“What do you think?” the decorator asked Harry, spreading her arms wide to the world she and her employees were in the finishing stages of building for him.

“It’s perfect,” Harry told her. 

(But the world could have ended with a bang and he still would have told her the same as flames licked up the walls of the church.)

And she smiled and so did he and if he saw another smile he was going to explode with joy, the happiness inside him ten times the strength of any agony he had ever felt. 

Already the day flew by far too fast for Harry to get a grip on, and Niall and Liam arrived together long before Louis, dressed in identical snappy black suits to match Zayn’s. 

“You look amazing, man!” Niall told Harry as he hovered with his arms out like he couldn’t wait to pull Harry into a bear hug at the end of the day, and Harry knew the feeling. 

“You two don’t look so bad yourself,” Harry told them in reply, the two of them tossing identical bouts of laughter to the high ceiling. The next to arrive was Nick, Eleanor at his side, and George trailed in behind them. It was strange for a moment as Jeff arrived, sheepish with his shoulders low, but he came and that was all that mattered. Harry told him the truth; it was good to see him. Jeff offered a watery smile and said it was good to see Harry, too. And they were the only goddamn family Harry ever needed, the few of them more than enough as they fawned and fussed over Harry and told him how goddamn happy and proud and excited they were for him and for Louis. Over and over he thanked them, overwhelmed with the support and the love they never stopped raining down on him, and he tossed a quick prayer to the ceiling that he did not cry like a fucking baby in front of everyone.

(Louis had insisted they write their own vows but keep them a secret, reading them to one another after the reception, and Harry was relieved. Anything more than the words they were to repeat after the pastor would have ruined Harry, making him cry while everybody watched.)

The decorators and the planner and the florist finished off and they backed away, standing at the back of the church as the former Troves and roadies and best friends took their seats, Harry’s entire world fitting in the front row of pews. 

That was all right. He had everything he needed and more in them. And all at once there were minutes to go instead of hours and Harry began to shake.

(Feeling this way before a show would have prompted him to race to the bathroom and sink to his knees, the habit of forcing himself to throw up a hard habit to shake, but he felt no desire to run away now.)

Zayn held up his phone to show Harry the text on his screen, grinning madly as he said, “Soph and Lou are on their way.” And this was real, this was Harry’s wedding day, and he shook so hard he was sure everyone watching him stand at the altar could see. He roved his eyes over the waiting faces, each of them tilted up to look at him, and Louis was going to arrive any moment and he was going to walk towards Harry down the aisle and the pastor held their wedding bands and all of this was far too good and far too much and Harry hardly dared to breathe. 

“You’re okay, Haz,” Zayn told him, and Harry realized just how hard he trembled as Zayn rose from his seat to drop both hands onto his shoulders. Zayn looked hard into his eyes and Harry was almost frantic as he met Zayn’s gaze. “You’re okay,” Zayn said again. “This is Louis, Haz, and you love him. You don’t have to worry about anything.” And he gave Harry a quick hug, not quite tight enough to rumple either of their pristine suits, and the moment Zayn sat in his seat beside Perrie the front door of the church began to open and Harry began to sweat.

This was real and there was no turning back now.

(He had proposed for the first time on Christmas Day, a cold and snowy night a lifetime from today, and as Sophia stepped into the church holding Louis by the arm Harry remembered all over again how he had felt that night and every night since.)

And Louis Tomlinson stepped into Harry’s line of sight and without warning Harry felt all the worry and the self-doubt and the pain fall away. Louis was beautiful as always as he walked slowly down the aisle towards Harry, a bashful smile playing on his lips as every face in the room turned to him. And he was fucking perfect. He was clean shaven and his hair was slicked back high on his head, loose locks curling against his neck. His charcoal gray suit fit him perfectly, cut to fit every curve of his body, and even from where he stood Harry could see the sky blue tie he wore was the exact color of his eyes.

And he was Harry’s. 

And Harry was not going to cry.

Sophia had tears in her eyes, though, making it harder and harder for Harry to keep a straight face as she and Louis slowly made their way to the altar. She bit back a smile as best she could but just like everyone else there was nothing she could do to hide it. Far, far before Harry was ready she stood before him, guiding Louis’s hand into Harry’s, and she pulled away with her chin trembling from the effort of keeping tears at bay. 

“Thank you,” Harry mouthed to her, and she waved him away as she sat at Perrie’s side. Perrie handed her a tissue she gratefully accepted and all at once Harry and Louis stood before every person that mattered with the pastor between them. And this was real. There was nothing else between them anymore but the man who was waiting to marry them and give Louis Tomlinson a brand new name and Harry a brand new husband. 

Harry was not going to cry. 

The ceremony went by faster than anything, Harry solemnly repeating everything the pastor said and Louis doing just the same. They stood facing each other, Louis’s eyes widening by the moment, and Harry wanted with everything in him to lunge forward and kiss Louis hard over and over until he cried. But he could wait. He had waited a year for this moment, a lifetime. What was one minute more? And here it was, the moment Harry would have never thought he would get to have, and the pastor plucked Louis’s ring from somewhere in his robes and handed it to Harry. 

It was a small and simple thing to slide it effortlessly onto Louis’s slender finger to join his golden engagement ring, something that was in no way small and simple at all. And Louis took Harry’s ring in his hand and Louis trembled as he slid it onto Harry’s finger, the two of them shaking hard enough to cause an earthquake. And it was over. Louis surged forward on his tiptoes and he kissed Harry as hard as he could, tasting sweet as he always did, and all at once Louis was not Harry’s fiancé anymore.

He was Harry’s husband. 

It was over, it was over, and Louis was going to be Harry’s forever. 

And fuck, Harry thought, maybe that was how all of this was meant to go.

 

In the reception hall Harry and Louis danced in the center of the floor, Louis’s hair tickling Harry’s chin as he leaned heavy on his chest, their hearts beating side by side. Harry could hear the clicking of phone cameras coming from every side and he didn’t fucking care. This was attention he could handle. This was love that was easy to accept. He hardly listened to the songs they danced to, Harry and his husband, his Louis, slow dancing through rock songs and ballads without pause. 

(Sophia had wept the whole way to the reception hall but she was all right now, dancing with George and laughing as he spun her on the dance floor at Harry’s side.)

And Harry waited for the other shoe to drop, for all of this to end, and over and over he had to tell himself he did not have to be scared anymore. Step number one was admitting he was scared. Step number two was learning how to fight it. And here was step number three: forgetting all the fear that had kept him back and paying attention to nothing but the warmth of Louis’s hands and the weight of the wedding band on his finger. 

Harry Styles had waited a lifetime to be okay and he was finally on his way there. 

(Maybe he and Louis were made for a lifetime of figuring things out, of falling out and making out and making things up as they went along. And it was a fate Harry was not afraid of anymore.)

Louis was warm in his arms and Harry pressed kiss after kiss into Louis’s soft, cinnamon scented hair and told him the only thing that mattered.

“I am so fucking in love with you.”

And Louis fisted the back of Harry’s jacket, mussing it up, and Harry did not care one bit.

“And I am so in love with you, you fucking menace,” Louis said. He lunged up on his toes to kiss Harry’s cheek, his lips soft, and when their mouths found each other Harry sank into the best goddamn kiss of his life. 

(There were a lot worse things Harry could be than a menace. He could handle a lifetime of being one if he got to be Louis’s.)

 

“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” Zayn told Harry as he and Perrie got ready for their long ride home to Lake George. “Or do,” he winked as he crashed his lips against Harry’s cheek and shoved him playfully away. 

“Bye, sweet baby,” Harry told his goddaughter, making her giggle and smile as he tickled her chin with gentle fingers. He made a promise to visit before Christmas, telling Perrie and Zayn truthfully he was going to miss them as they left. And Niall threw his arms painfully tight around Harry to say his own goodbye, dangerously close to tears, and the beatific smile he gave Harry was the best gift he could have given.

“Take care of yourselves,” Niall said, and Harry accepted a warm hug from Liam as he told Niall they would. And just like that they, too, were gone. 

(And Harry was getting good at accepting temporary losses; the fear of missing his bandmates, his best friends, no longer consuming him as he said goodbye after goodbye.)

George was next and he was shy as he hugged Louis, telling the two of them that they had better come see him and the Atoms as much as they could as they continued their tour. 

“We’re just above Pilot’s Poison on the charts,” he said with a nervous laugh, and Harry told him the truth. He didn’t fucking care. Let Michael Clifford have the fucking fame and glory for now; George and the Atoms were going to take the world by storm and Harry told George just that, making the kid blush crimson. 

“Don’t forget to stay loyal to each other,” Harry told him, making sure George was solemn as he nodded. “Stay friends. Stay close. It’s you three against the world, you hear me?” And George told him he understood and Harry believed him. 

And the roadies said so long, Nick and Eleanor promising with identical smiles to take good care of the band, to make sure they never fell apart. And Harry believed them.

Far, far before he was ready Sophia was the only one left. She stood before Harry and Louis, her high heels dangling from one hand, and when she spoke her words were stern.

“Don’t you dare be strangers,” she told them for the hundredth time. “I’m going to miss you so fucking much.” This was an ending of a different kind, more of a goodbye than a see you later, and she seemed to know it just as well as Harry. This was the official goodbye, Harry’s exit from the life Sophia and the former members of The Troves were returning to, and as he bowed out he felt no fear at all. And he hugged her as tight as she could, holding tighter until she squeaked in pain, and when he released her and she flung her arms around Louis he watched her and could hardly remember the woman at all who had grown to resent him, the girl who had wanted to throw it all away because of how he wore her down. And the two of them had been to hell and back and to hell again together and they had spent the last year building each other back up.

And to say he was going to miss her would be like saying he would miss a limb.

“I love you so much, my Sophia,” he told her, trying his best to put every thank you he never said into his words. And judging by the tears that filled her eyes she got the message loud and clear. And she cleared her throat and she said goodbye, taking one last long look at the two of them, and Harry and Louis were alone. 

After a long moment Louis dropped his head onto Harry’s shoulder and with a quiet, sleepy voice he told him, “Let’s go home.”

 

Lying in their bed as newlyweds Louis pulled from the bedside table two carefully folded pages of wedding vows they had promised only to share alone together in the dark. Louis handed Harry his page as he unfolded his own, flashing Harry a look that said without speaking, _aren’t we fucking lucky?_ And they were. They were the luckiest goddamn people on the planet. And Harry unfolded the page he had scribbled his vows upon days and days ago, long before Louis and he had both panicked and calmed down and panicked again. The words were still there in his messy scrawl just as he had left them, barely legible in the dark of their room. And he pressed the paper to his nose and hid his face from Louis, grumbling,

“Do I really have to read this out loud? Can’t you just read it to yourself while I hide?” He had shared his soul with the world, his lyrics baring everything, but baring his soul to Louis was so much harder. And he wouldn’t go so far as to say he was a nervous wreck but he was getting close. Louis pulled the paper away from his face and Harry could barely make out Louis’s face in the dark.

“Want me to go first?” Louis asked, and Harry nodded so fast his exhausted brain began to spin. “Okay,” Louis said. “Listen,” he said as if Harry was going to do anything but. 

“I’m listening.” And Louis squinted to read the words he had written on the single sheet of notebook paper in his hands, the page torn from the same notebook in which Harry had scribbled _Of the Color of the Sky_. 

And Louis cleared his throat and began to speak.

“Harry,” Louis began, tasting Harry’s name as he always did, “you were part of my life long before I met you. You sang me to sleep every night when I was sixteen and I saw you in person for the first time when I was seventeen. And the second I turned eighteen I had your words inked on my skin. You were part of me long before I met you. And I know…I know how lucky I am that I got those extra years with you. From the moment I met you I thought I knew you already, thanks to the words that were my lullaby for so many years. I can’t believe how blessed I am now to…to know you far better than I did when I was a kid. To know all the parts of you I was missing. And I know it’s scary; it’s terrifying, just to show somebody all the ugly parts of you and all the parts that might make it hard for someone to love you.” He cleared his throat, Harry’s heart beating wildly in his chest, and Harry let his eyes slip closed as Louis’s voice washed over him.

“But I love you for all that you are,” he went on. “I love you for your way with words and I love you when you struggle to find them. I love you when you hurt and I love you when you make everything that could hurt me go away. I love you for your insecurities and the way that you love me. I love you when it’s dark and I love you in the light and I don’t have the same way with words as…as you do, Harry, but that’s all I have to say. I love you, I love you, and I am so blessed that in this life you love me, too.”

Louis went quiet.

And for the longest time Harry listened to Manhattan far below them and the slow and steady sound of Louis breathing. 

Louis sounded choked up, just a little, when he brushed Harry’s cheek with his fingers and said, “Your turn. Read me mine, baby, give me all you’ve got.”

“I already have,” Harry managed, sounded just a touch strangled himself. When Louis laughed it came out like he was choking, drowning in the happy tears that overwhelmed him. “Don’t cry, hey,” Harry said. He leaned close to Louis, close enough to kiss him, but instead he pressed his forehead to Louis’s and told him, “I love you.”

“I love you,” Louis replied breathlessly. “I love you, too.” And Harry was not as tough as Louis and twice as cowardly but he pulled back just enough to hold his own wedding vows before them, reading them out loud in the sickly orange light coming from outside. 

“Louis,” Harry said. He turned his head just a little bit to catch Louis’s eye and instead he caught him wiping a tear that had slipped down his cheek. “Sweetheart, hey,” Harry cooed. “It’s not that bad, trust me. Just listen.” And Louis nodded, all ears, and Harry snapped the paper in his hands to straighten it out and get a closer look.

(It had taken three minutes to write, all the words already in his head, and his handwriting was twice as bad as usual.)

“Louis,” Harry said again. “When I met you I lied to you all the time. I told you I wasn’t scared of anything. Over and over I told you and I knew you never believed me. And it took me so long to catch on once I realized I wasn’t afraid anymore. It was you, Louis, and everything you taught me. You taught me that I could be strong even when I couldn’t see a light at the end of the tunnel. And you taught me that the end didn’t ever have to be the end at all. It could be a new beginning. A beginning is what I see in you, the start of a billion different things we could do.”

And Louis made a soft sound of protest as Harry dropped the paper in his hands to fall gently on the bedroom floor. He had memorized each word, agonizing after he had it all down that it had come out all wrong. But here he was and he was going to let it all come out and Louis looked at him with wide, wide eyes and Harry searched for Louis’s hand in the dark. When he found it, when they clung together in their bed, Harry went on.

“I can’t promise you much. I don’t have a lot to give. I’m selfish and mean and I haven’t learned just yet how to keep myself from sinking. But I’m better when you are around, Lou, and I want to tell you over and over until there’s not a doubt in your mind. I can’t promise you I’m going to ever stop running. But I can guarantee that the moment you pull I’m coming right back. Never in your life will you have to worry about me running so far you can’t call me back to you. And that’s all I have, but I hope that for the rest of my life you’ll want it. I love you, Lou, and you’re the sun. You’re the light. And forever and ever, baby, wherever you are, that’s my home.”

And there it was. It was out there, Louis close enough to kiss, and there was no taking it back now. And Louis looked at Harry with tears clinging to his eyelashes like shooting stars and his hold on Harry’s hand tightened as he breathed. 

And maybe Harry fucking Styles was meant to be a mess. Maybe he was born to run. But Louis was his rope and Louis was his safety and Louis was his home. 

Louis tasted sweet as he kissed Harry, his mouth soft and his voice softer. Harry leaned as close as he could to the sound of Louis’s racing heart just in time for him to hear,

“Baby, I love you, too.”

And maybe that was how all of this was meant to go. 

 

THE END.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the real end, I promise. Anyway, thank you, thank you, thank you for all the support and the love. I'm so sad to be leaving this version of the boys behind but I have so many more stories to tell. I hope you've enjoyed this journey as much as I have. 
> 
> Message me on tumblr @ ourl0veisgod with anything ever (comments, prompts, anything!). 
> 
> Thank you :) <3


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